Terminal Velocity Part Two
by loobeyloo
Summary: Back in uniform and working under cover, Stringfellow Hawke must uncover a traitor before someone else is killed and the Thunderbird Project destroyed.
1. Chapter 1

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter One**

Roger Dobbs took a moment to move his attention away from checking his instrument gauges to take in the spectacular view over Guy Anders' head and shoulders, which filled the front windshield.

The barren, rocky planes of the California desert was afire as the sun set over the distant hills, and as Anders executed a perfect barrel roll, Dobbs saw the curvature of the earth and the sharp contrast between daylight and night flash before him, before he was forced to return his attention to the instruments before him.

It was Friday evening, the end of his third week at Project Thunderbird, and between the exercise regime, various classes, simulator sessions and mandatory flight checks that filled his days, he hardly felt as if he had drawn breath since he had arrived.

He was getting to know his fellow trainees quite well now, forced to because there was so little chance to get away from them, and while the twin jokers in the pack had had more than their fair share of mileage out of his age and his dietary habits, he had soon come to realise that he wasn't the only one they ragged on, and it had gone a long way to making him feel as if he had been accepted into the group.

This evening Dobbs had been assigned as rear seat, navigator, to Guy Anders, the one man in the team who was still something of an enigma to Dobbs. He wasn't overly friendly, but he wasn't hostile either.

That was definitely Eugene Webber's territory, and the Navy man had made no effort to conceal his dislike for Roger Dobbs.

Their wingman this evening was Frank Campbell, with Chuck McCrea assigned as his rear seat, and their flight had been uneventful, a routine milk run, for Campbell and Anders to clock up their required hours, and soon they would be making a slow looping turn and descending, making back for the airfield, and the night landing that was the real reason for this flight.

Dobbs had passed his own routine night landing test flight the previous evening with flying colours, with Malcolm Shaw as his rear seat, so he knew that they had almost reached the point in the flight when Anders would bank the jet and head for home and that the pilot would soon be calling out for readings from his rear seat man.

Dobbs was also monitoring the routine chit chat bouncing back and forth between Anders and Campbell, and Campbell and McCrea, keeping each other apprised of their aircrafts status and the skies around them.

"Time to take this pigeon home to roost …." Guy Anders spoke in a deep, rich voice as he eased the jet into a tight right bank and concluded the manoeuvre with a another lazy barrel roll and as the world righted it's self around him once more, Dobbs called out fuel levels, altitude, velocity and radar readings to his pilot.

Suddenly, there was an unusual rattling noise and instantly the jet quivered, shimmying and jolting and even before Dobbs had a chance to try to evaluate the problem, the protective canopy covering their heads buckled and splintered and was ripped clean off, disappearing into the inky, star filled night.

Dobbs was almost yanked clean up out of his seat.

He felt his shoulder restraints tighten around his upper body, and G force pushing him so hard back against his seat he thought his spine would snap, and Frank Campbell's anxious voice in his head set screaming,

"Holy cow! Flame out …. Shit they lost their canopy …. Eject, eject, guys, Eject!"

Recovering his wits, Dobbs scanned the dials and gauges before him, a job made infinitely more difficult by the fact that he was being tossed around by G-force, their velocity and the turbulence, a wicked gale force wind that suddenly raged around him, it's cold fingers clawing at his clothes and finding its way inside his flight suit, as he fought to focus on the control panel before him, watching the altimeter spinning wildly, making his eyes water.

For a brief instant, Dobbs wondered if his pilot was still conscious, knowing that it wasn't unheard of for the canopy to give a guy's head a good thwack when it was released, but he could see Anders' helmet encased head moving from side to side, in front of him, and now, at last he could feel some measure of control return to their descent, even if the jet was still bucking and bouncing like a rodeo steer.

He could only guess at the arm wrestling match Guy Anders was engaged in with the stick.

"Hey, Dobbs, you still with me back there …." Anders panted raggedly over Dobbs headset now, sounding groggy and winded, and Dobbs again found himself wondering if the pilot had been knocked out, if only briefly.

"Roger that, Major," Dobbs confirmed quickly, relieved to hear Anders voice. "Being shaken around like a cocktail but aside from loosening a few teeth, I'll survive. You ok?"

"Roger that. Got a bang on the head, but I'm ok now."

"Are you able to continue?" Roger Dobbs asked a little breathlessly, feeling his stomach churning and roiling as he was tossed around in his seat, but there was genuine concern in his voice.

"Roger that," Anders confirmed swiftly, grunting loudly as he wrestled with the flight controls.

"Any significant structural damage caused by the canopy release?" Dobbs quizzed, swallowing down the sensation of nausea.

"Negative, but my instruments are shot. I'll need you to be my eyes and ears back there."

"Roger," Dobbs concurred, guessing that the sudden change in air pressure had broken the glass fronted dials, then he quickly filled Anders in on the condition of their aircraft and their altitude, course and velocity.

"Maverick One, this is Maverick Two, Anders, Dobbs, get the hell out of there! Eject, Eject!"

"Negative, Captain Campbell, we can bring her in …." Anders insisted calmly, but there was an underlying edge to his voice that indicated his resentment at the implication that he did not have things under control.

"Tell me what we got, Dobbs," he returned his attention to his rear seat man now, ignoring the edge of excitement in Frank Campbell's voice.

"Maverick Two, you've got a good view out there, what's the damage?" Dobbs demanded without stopping to think about it, knowing even as he finished speaking that the request should have come from the pilot, but Dobbs was concerned that from his tone of voice, his bunk mate could see some structural damage that they were not aware of yet.

"You mean aside from one engine being out and your canopy gone …."

"Roger that …."

"Dammit, Thor …." Guy Anders rough voice cut in to their conversation, Frank Campbell's nickname sounding odd on his lips. "Quit distracting my rear seat and let him do his job!" He bellowed over the radio now, and Dobbs winced as the volume almost deafened him. "Dammit, Dobbs I need you focused. I asked you to give me the numbers."

"Roger that,"

Again Dobbs called out their altitude, velocity, rate of descent and attitude to his pilot and listened while Anders put in a mayday call to the field to alert them to the fact that he was coming in damaged and without the benefit of instruments.

"Damn, it's hard to keep the nose up …." He heard Anders gasping. "She's fighting me all the way …." He panted raggedly, having to use all his strength to keep control over the stick. "Like trying to fly a Sherman Tank …."

"Can you try to relight engine number one?" Roger Dobbs asked, but he suspected that he already knew the answer that he would get. Anders had probably already tried, while he had been calling out the numbers to him.

"I already tried, Dobbs, twice, but no dice," Anders confirmed. "Guess we're both gonna need a clean pair of pants when this is over, buddy."

Despite the dire nature of the situation he found himself in, Roger Dobbs could not suppress a smile. A sense of humour was something that quite often made the difference in situations like these.

"If we do, I'm sending you the bill for dry cleaning," he quipped back and heard Anders soft chuckle in his ears.

"Ok, Dobbs, gear down," Anders ordered at last.

"Roger," Dobbs confirmed, realising that they were on their final approach to the landing strip and that they were coming in too fast.

Obviously Anders was banking on the landing gear giving them a little drag and slowing down their descent.

Roger Dobbs activated the switch to drop the landing gear, but the light stubbornly refused to go green, indicating that the gear was down and locked into place.

"Dobbs?"

"No green light, Anders," Dobbs confirmed in a tight voice. "And I didn't hear the gear go down."

Although it was not surprising with the howling gale drowning out everything except the sound of their ragged breathing through their breathing regulators and Anders' barked orders over the radio.

"Me neither," Anders sighed raggedly into Dobbs ear over the headset "Maverick Two, what do you see?"

"One wheel down, the other seems to be stuck in the undercarriage," Frank Campbell, sounding a little calmer now informed.

"Roger. Confirm that. No gear."

"Maverick One this is the tower, please confirm your status," the controller in the tower requested in a calm voice.

"Maverick One, roger. Confirm, we have sustained damage, due to unscheduled emergency canopy release and have no instruments and no landing gear," Anders intoned solemnly. "Guess you'd better call out the cavalry …."

"Roger that, Maverick One. Standby for instructions."

"Instructions my ass! We have ourselves an underwear situation here, son, so we're coming in, ready or not!"

"Negative Maverick One! Negative. Go around, Sir, repeat, go around. We need to spray the strip with foam in preparation for an emergency landing. Maverick Two, you are cleared for immediate landing, Sir."

"Forget it kid, this thing flies like a lead balloon. Clear the damned field 'cos we're coming in, fast!"

"We have to burn off the rest of the fuel," Dobbs advised his pilot looking at the gauge before him that indicated a quarter tank of fuel remained on board. "Or dump it fast," he added, watching as Frank Campbell peeled his craft away from them and began his descent to the airstrip.

"Roger, go ahead and dump it. We can't go round, the flight controls are not responding. I can't turn her."

"Terrific! Then maybe it's time we thought about bailing out?"

Dobbs hated having to be the one to make the suggestion, almost as much as he hated the idea of ditching the craft, but it would have been irresponsible of him not to at least put the idea in his pilots' head, to be the voice of reason, knowing that it was a tough call to make, when you had so many other things to think about, but knowing that in his place, he would welcome someone else pointing out that there was no shame in walking away, if you could.

The thought of being catapulted out of the cockpit by explosive forces beneath his seat and enduring a hard, bone jarring and teeth rattling landing on dry, compact desert sand was infinitely more appealing than dying in a ball of flame.

"I've never lost one yet …." Anders snarled in response.

"I never lost one yet either, but we can't stay virgins for ever! Did no one ever tell you there's a first time for everything?"

"I can handle it," Anders assured, and there was something in his voice that Roger Dobbs immediately recognised.

Self belief.

Supreme self confidence.

"Ok …." Dobbs let out a deep sigh, knowing that if he were in Anders shoes, he would probably feel the same way.

Dobbs knew his own limitations, and he had the confidence in his own ability to get the job done.

Anders obviously felt that he had the skill to deal with the situation so all Dobbs could do was trust him and sit back and enjoy the ride.

"An underwear situation …. I like that. Gotta remember that one," he allowed him self a soft chuckle of appreciation.

"That's the last of the fuel, Major. We're on fumes," Roger Dobbs advised after a brief moment of silence. "Guess we just turned into a glider."

"I always wanted to land the space shuttle. Now we'll have a better idea of how it feels. Why don't you try the gear again?" Anders suggested.

"Roger," Dobbs affirmed.

What could it hurt?

So he reached out and hit the switch to retract the gear, but again, with the wind howling all around him, the tiny jet fighter being tossed and bounced around by velocity and turbulence so all he could feel was a sensation not unlike being thrown around on a stormy sea, and seeing no change in the light on his status board Dobbs had no idea if the gear was up or not.

What the hell?

He hit the button again, to bring the gear down once more, just as the jet fighter passed through a nasty pocket of turbulence, which almost lifted both men out of their seats before slamming them down hard again and winding them badly.

To Roger Dobbs amazement, when his eyes were again able to focus, he found the landing gear light glowing green and the barber pole indicator in place, confirming that the wheels were down.

"Gear down!" Roger Dobbs yelled triumphantly, realising that the jolt as they passed through the pocket of unstable air had helped to loosen the gear from where it had been stuck in the fuselage.

"Locked?"

"Can't be sure, but it's too late to worry about it now …." Dobbs reminded as he watched the lights of the landing strip rushing up to greet them at alarming speed.

"Tower, Maverick One, we have a gear down indicator light, but can't be sure if they're locked. Can you verify gear down from the ground?"

"Roger Maverick One, we see, wheels down."

The controller confirmed and Dobbs immediately realised that they had someone with binoculars out on the field watching their descent.

"So, how are you doing with that foam? Have you cleared the strip yet?"

"Maverick Two is just taxiing off the runway, and we have the fire crew laying down foam now."

"Roger that, tell them to make it snappy and then get the hell out of there. We're out of fuel and on our final approach."

"Roger."

Dobbs heard the gulp in the young flight controller's voice as he responded, and wondered if he would be needing a dry pair of pants when this was all over too.

"Here we go Dobbs, be ready to kiss your ass goodbye …."

The jet fighter came in to line up with the run way, the pilot fighting with her all the way, to keep her straight and level, to keep her wings from tipping up and her nose from dipping down ….

Everyone in the tower watched and waited, holding their breath, crossing their fingers, muttering expletives and prayers under their breath as the jet fighter rapidly lost altitude, getting closer and closer to the tarmac, anxiously waiting to see what would happen when the wheels collided with solid ground.

Roger Dobbs waited with baited breath to feel terra firma beneath him.

He'd been in situations like this before, in 'Nam, and during his brief career as a test pilot, close shaves and near misses. He had always made the decision to stick with it, not to bail out, and he had never once doubted that he would walk away, so he understood why Guy Anders would feel the same way right now.

Still, he was also aware of the law of averages, and that one day, even his luck would run out.

Still, he had a feeling ….

Maybe this wasn't the one that he wouldn't walk away from after all, he found himself thinking with elation as the wheels made hard contact with the ground, but held the jet's weight, bouncing and dipping but locked into position as the jet fighter gracelessly slid and swerved and slipped down the runway, foam floating up around the open cockpit, Guy Anders fighting to keep her from skidding off the strip into the harder uneven ground on either side of the runway and stomping on the brakes.

With fire trucks screaming and wailing, tearing after them, the tiny jet careened down the runway and finally came to a juddering halt as Anders yanked on the stick to avoid running off the end of the landing strip, and the front landing wheel finally gave way under the sudden unexpected change in direction and crumpled beneath them.

Dobbs saw sparks fly briefly, whizzing past on either side of the front of the jet, as the nose grated along the floor, the screeching of metal scraping against the blacktop sending a shiver down his spine, setting his teeth on edge, but then, at last the fighter was still.

There was a flurry of activity in the minutes that followed, minutes when both men hardly had time to draw breath, as people descended on the jet, strong hands reaching in to remove their helmets and breathing regulators and release their safety harnesses before bodily lift them out of their seats, ignoring both men's protests that they were fine, as they were laid down on to stretchers, before being transported to ambulance trucks and whisked back to Project Thunderbird's main buildings to be checked out.

"Oh man, what a ride!" Guy Anders finally turned to Dobbs and grinned as they lay beside each other in the medical facility waiting for the doctors to return and pronounce them fit.

"Yeah, but let's not do it again in a hurry," Dobbs grinned back.

"Are you criticizing my driving, Dobbs?" Anders smirked.

"No Major, just your emergency stopping!"

Both men dissolved into laughter, caused no doubt by utter relief at finding themselves on firm ground and all in one piece, both knowing that it could have turned out so differently.

"Thanks for backing me up, up there," Anders sobered at last and Roger Dobbs knew that he was referring to the moment when he had decided not to bail out.

"Hey, that's what rear seats are for."

"You know there will have to be an investigation into what happened …."

"Sure," Dobbs sighed softly. "It's procedure, and let's face it, we did break, or at least badly bend a very expensive piece of military hardware," he smothered a guffaw, knowing that if they laughed too much someone was going to jump to the conclusion that they were hysterical, and they might end up staying in this hospital room longer than was actually necessary.

"We could be grounded," Anders also struggled not to laugh out loud, obviously coming to the same conclusion. "Face a Court Martial …."

"Maybe," Dobbs concurred.

"I guess you also know that the other guys are going to come to their own conclusions about what happened up there …." His voice trailed away then, and Dobbs knew that he was being serious.

"Coincidence, jinx or something more worrying?" Dobbs regarded Anders with penetrating blue eyes, but kept his tone casual, as Anders merely shrugged.

"What do you think?" Anders asked him outright now.

"I think it goes with the territory, Major," Dobbs replied with sincerity now. "Flame outs happen, canopies eject. Accidents do happen, people do make mistakes …." He mimicked Eugene Webber's words to him back on the first day he had arrived, and this drew a sardonic smile from Anders. "Let's just hope we've had _**our**_ brush with misfortune for this project …."

"What, you mean you didn't enjoy my little victory dance?"

"Is that what it was? I thought you were proving the theory about the irresistible force meeting the immoveable object …."

"Well, at least we know Isaac Newton was right …." Anders paused for effect.

"What goes up, must come down!" They said in unison and were again consumed with laughter.

"I'm glad you guys find it so funny."

The new voice belonged to Colonel Thomas Jardine who had entered the room they were sharing on silent feet, although the expression on his face was a mixture of anger, relief and more than a hint of amusement at finding the two men who had just had a very close brush with death, able to find something to laugh about.

"I hope you don't have any fancy plans for your future gentlemen, because it is going to take you both the rest of your military careers to pay off the cost of repairing that aircraft!"

The Colonel's face suddenly broke into a huge grin at the looks on Dobbs and Anders faces and both men shared a pained look before allowing themselves another chuckle.

"How soon can we get out of here, Colonel?" Guy Anders asked at last.

"That will be up to Dr Sykes, but my guess is, you'll both be here for at least one night, to make sure there are no after effects. Dr Sykes told me you were knocked out, briefly, Major Anders, and she is anxious to make sure that you don't have a delayed reaction. And as for you Major Dobbs, you have some nasty bruising to your ribs, and even though you say not, we can't rule out the possibility that you too didn't lose consciousness just for a moment or two. So, relax gentlemen and get a good night's sleep, and yes, that is an order."

"Sir, yes Sir!"


	2. Chapter 2

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Two**

"Ah, c'mon doc, at least let us spend the night in our own cribs …." Guy Anders grouched as he watched Sara Sykes scribbling notes on his chart. "We feel fine."

"I'm sorry Majors, " Sara Sykes regarded both men as she spoke, noting that for two men who had so recently come close to death, they looked remarkably calm and in good spirits.

"You're staying in over night for observation," she told them, wrestling with a smile at the looks that both men were now aiming in her direction. They looked like a couple of kids who had been told they couldn't play out with their friends because they had a runny nose and might get a cold.

In the month since she had joined the Thunderbird Project, Sara Sykes had spent time with all the trainees, monitoring their training and exercise programmes on a daily basis, and she had come to know them all quite well.

Of the six trainees, these two were possibly the hardest to read, both quiet and conservative, keeping their heads down and concentrating on getting the job done. Neither of them were inclined to volunteer anything of a personal nature about themselves or indulge in social chit-chat, yet despite that, Sara Sykes had found Roger Dobbs to be a little more approachable than Anders.

And Roger Dobbs continued to be an enigma to her.

She felt drawn to him in ways she had never experienced before, and not merely because he was attractive, attentive and charming to boot, but there was something else, some underlying powerful force that both thrilled her and alarmed her at the same time.

Sometimes she would catch him watching her, and knew immediately that he felt drawn to her too, but the question that bothered her most was, _**why?**_

Sara knew that she wasn't unattractive, having a good figure and her hair and eye colouring giving her a somewhat unusual and exotic appearance, but she knew that she still had a long way to go to measure up to some of the stunningly attractive girls that were posted here on the base, so she had a hard time accepting that he might be interested in her as a woman.

_**So what else could it be?**_

_**That **_was what bothered her most, because she couldn't actually dismiss the idea that his purpose here at Thunderbird was entirely honourable.

Maybe he sensed that, sensed that she was suspicious of him, she reasoned, because he did appear to be more sensitive than other men she had known.

She had teased him about being a mind reader on the very first day he arrived, but now she was beginning to wonder if there wasn't some small grain of truth in it.

And maybe he sensed that her purpose here was not entirely as it seemed and was as suspicious about _**her **_as she was about _**him**_, a little voice nagged away at the back of her mind, as she turned to bestow a benign smile on Roger Dobbs too now.

There was no denying that there had been some kind of connection between them when they had first met, and it seemed that although neither of them was brave enough to pursue it, neither of them could actually get away from it either.

Sara Sykes could not get away from the fact that being around Roger Dobbs made her uneasy, on so many levels.

And this latest development made her even more determined to find out what exactly it was about him that threw her out of her usual calm equilibrium.

Was he merely the innocent victim of an accident, or was it more than that?

_**Darn.**_

Now she had no option but to try to get to know him a little better.

She had to be sure of him, one way or another.

Was he friend, or foe?

Could she trust him?

_**Should she trust him?**_

So much depended on her placing her trust in the right people ….

And she was getting mixed signals from Roger Dobbs that made it impossible to be certain if he was what he seemed.

_**Why couldn't life be simple?**_

"We need to be sure that neither of you have concussion, and that you don't have a delayed reaction and go into shock," Sara Sykes reined in her thoughts and explained matter of factly, as she replaced Guy Anders chart on the foot of the bed before moving to pick up Roger Dobbs chart and cast her eye over it quickly.

Dobbs had insisted that he hadn't lost consciousness during the incident, but external aerodynamic forces at work up there had caused the shoulder restraints to tighten and cause some extensive bruising to his ribs and shoulders. The X-rays showed no sign of a break or fracture, so the damage was only superficial, but it wouldn't hurt for him to cool his heels in the observation ward just for one night, to be on the safe side.

"Do we look like we're going into shock?" Anders demanded now.

"No, actually Majors, you look remarkably good, for two guys who just buried the nose of a jet into the runway, but …."

"Ah man!" Anders snarled.

"What's your problem Major?" Sara Sykes diverted her full attention to the USAF officer now, wondering why he was making so much fuss when he must surely know that it was purely a routine procedure.

"It's not like you have somewhere else to be," she smiled softly at Anders now, hoping to take some of the heat out of him. "One night in here isn't going to kill you, Major, I promise. Besides, the top brass just sent down word to tell you both that they have scheduled a weekend of R'n'R for the whole unit."

Now both men turned sharply to look at each other

"They grounded us," Guy Anders gave Roger Dobbs a knowing look, but the other man was frowning now as he pondered on what Sara Sykes had just said. "Told you so," Anders sighed deeply.

"Not just us, Anders. _**All**_ of us," Dobbs sighed too, thinking that he knew what lay behind the commanding officers' decision.

It had been a serious incident that bore further investigation, and they would not want to risk the lives of any more men until they knew more about what had caused the accident this evening.

"Word is, gentlemen, that after your little escapade, the feeling is that no-one else should fly until they find out what exactly happened up there," Dr Sykes confirmed what Dobbs had been thinking now. "The joint commanders have already set the ball rolling to get replacement aircraft shipped out to us, but it's going to take a few days."

Both men were silent, and then Roger Dobbs lay back against his pillows and let out a deep sigh of resignation, sliding his right arm under his head as he glowered menacingly up at the ceiling.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Majors, but didn't the Colonel give you an order?"

"Ma'am, yes Ma'am," Both men grunted and Sara Sykes found herself smiling gently at the pair of them. "Then feel free to carry it out, ASAP. Goodnight gentlemen. Relax and get a good night's sleep."

"Aren't you going to tuck us in?" Anders sniggered as he saw the look on her face as she turned on her flat heels and walked silently out of the room.

"Not even in your dreams, Majors, not even in your dreams …."


	3. Chapter 3

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Three**

"Roger, Roger …. Hush now," Roger Dobbs jerked awake as the soft voice close to his ear penetrated the swirling mists of his dream and his eyes flew open wide in horror and mortification as he realised where he was.

The dream was a familiar one.

Vietnam.

St John, lost ….

The noise of battle, the heat of the jungle, the feeling of being so helpless and ineffectual ….

He let out a long ragged breath and found himself gazing up into the soft, concerned features of Dr Sara Sykes, her deep blue eyes regarding him gently and her warm hand resting comfortingly against his right shoulder as she stood at his bedside.

_**Damn.**_

Why had it had to happen here of all places, Dobbs groaned silently to himself.

And why did she have to be the one to witness it …..

_**Damn. Damn. Damn ….**_

The last thing he needed was Psycho Sara's curiosity.

Or her pity.

He was drenched in sweat and his guts were still shaking, and he knew that he must have an expression of wild eyed horror on his face, a remnant of the dream, because Sara Sykes expression told him of her concern for him and her understanding too.

His heart sank, as he realised that there was no way she could simply overlook something like this. At the very least she would have to bring it to Dr Van Doom's attention.

_**Oh terrific ….**_

He sank back against his pillows and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, feeling hot tears run freely down the sides of his face as he did so.

_**Damn. Damn. Damn.**_

He felt the mattress move slightly beside him and opened his eyes to find Sara Sykes sitting on the bed beside him, watching him with gentle eyes and a reassuring smile.

Suddenly, she was reaching her hand out toward his face, her thumb lightly wiping away an errant tear as it tricked down his cheek and jaw then her warm hand cupped his chin gently.

Her touch was light, reassuring, so tender, and yet, he felt a jolt shoot through him, starting in his diaphragm and radiating out through his whole body before shooting out through his limbs, and suddenly all Roger Dobbs wanted to do was reach out to her and wrap his arms around her, bury his face in her neck and breathe in the scent of her.

"Back with us now, Roger?" Sara Sykes spoke in a low voice, slowly withdrawing her hand, and Dobbs suddenly felt his heart sink as he realised exactly where he was, then suddenly jerked his head toward the other cot, to look and see if his nightmare screams had disturbed his bunkmate, Guy Anders, only to find the bed empty.

He turned back to Sara Sykes wearing a frown, although he had to admit that he was relieved that the other man had not witnessed his weakness.

"The Major had a nose bleed, nothing serious. He's gone to the bathroom to clean up," Sykes informed him interpreting the questioning look on his face correctly.

"Relax Major, you were just a little …. Restless," she told him gently and the look on her face told Roger Dobbs that she knew exactly what had been happening to him, but that she had woken him before he had actually cried out.

Before he had called out for St John ….

He let out another deep sigh of relief and smiled weakly back at the doctor who remained seated on the bed, watching him carefully.

"I'm ok now," he assured her in a voice made rough and groggy by sleep and emotion.

"Yes, I think you are," she grinned back now.

"No, I mean, I'll be ok now," he explained. "It won't happen again."

Sara Sykes nodded, obviously prepared to accept that he knew the pattern his nightmares took.

"Can I get you anything, Major?" She asked, still not inclined to move from his bedside, deep violet eyes still scrutinising him, weighing him up, trying to decide if she should pursue the matter further with him, or to let it pass. "Some water?"

"No, thanks. I'm fine now."

"Very well," she reached out and lightly patted his right hand then rose from her perch on the edge of the bed. "Then I will say goodnight, Major,"

She took a small step back from the bed, just as Guy Anders chose that moment to return from his trip to the bathroom.

"Good night, again, Majors."

And with that, Sara Sykes took her leave, returning to the small alcove that had been assigned as the office space on the observation ward.

Sitting down carefully at the desk, Sara Sykes reached out for Roger Dobbs file, catching her bottom lip between her teeth as she opened it up to the relevant section and scanned the few brief details in his personal information, quickly finding what she was looking for.

Yes, it was as she remembered.

He had been in combat.

Vietnam.

Three tours no less.

Impressive.

Yet, there had obviously been consequences, which he was still dealing with, if only on a subconscious level.

The secret cost of the war.

The mental scars that men like Dobbs, brave men who had faced the enemy and learned more about the men that they were in doing so, were reluctant to own up to, because they feared it made them look weak.

Terrors that they could not help reliving in their dreams.

Unspeakable things that they felt they had to deal with on their own, suffering in silence.

Hiding their shame.

Sara Sykes understood Roger Dobbs a little better now.

No wonder he was so insular, so shut off.

So secretive.

Her father too had suffered horrendous nightmares after serving in World War 2, waking up in the middle of the night screaming and shouting, drenched in sweat, wide eyed and frantic, reliving that awful day when he and the rest of his friends had swarmed over the Normandy beaches in a bid to drive the Nazis back to where they belonged.

He had witnessed so much death, so much carnage that day, 6th June, 1944, had lost so many friends, and come close to losing his own life, several times, and because he had had to focus all of his energy and wits on staying alive, he had not had time to process it or come to terms with it until much, much later, when he had had many a broken night due to the horrifically vivid and detailed nightmares.

He had never spoken of it, not even to her mother, and it had been one of the main reasons they had begun to drift apart, and finally her mother had been unable to deal with her father's irrational mood swings and outbursts of unprovoked rage and she had walked away, fearing for herself and her children, despite the fact that she still loved him, and probably always would.

Even now, he found it hard to open up to her and talk to her about his experiences because he somehow thought that it might lessen her opinion of him, that she might see him as a weak man, no longer her strong, brave, gallant Papa.

Sara Sykes suspected that Dobbs nightmare had been induced by his recent brush with death and that he was probably right when he had indicated that now that it had passed he would not dream again tonight.

At least his mind was dealing with tonight's incident, even if it had taken him back to another time and place, another peril, one that he was used to dealing with in his nightmares, which was more than could be said for Guy Anders, who had prowled around the observation ward for an hour, scowling and mumbling under his breath in a bid to expend excess energy before he too could settle down to sleep.

His nose bleed had troubled her for a while, but it hadn't lasted very long and he insisted that he wasn't nauseous and that he didn't have a headache, and his brain scan had come back clean, so it was probably due to his heightened state of anxiety.

Sara Sykes mind returned to Roger Dobbs.

Lord but he was a conundrum, but the predilection to night terrors told her a lot about the kind of man he really was, Sara Sykes admitted silently to herself, another small insight into what made the man think and act the way he did, but it didn't mean that she should stop being suspicious of Roger Dobbs.

His conscience might be bothering him about something altogether different, she reasoned, sadly, and until she knew for sure where he stood and what his true purpose for being here was, she would have to be very careful.

Back in the observation ward, Roger Dobbs lay quietly in his cot, staring silently up at the ceiling, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down and his stomach to stop squirming, listening to Guy Anders breathing as it slowed, becoming deep and regular as he succumbed to sleep again at last, and as he lay there, Roger Dobbs silently blessed Sara Sykes for waking him before he got to the point in the dream where he screamed out for his lost brother, for he would have had a hard time explaining who St John was, and knew that he would be eternally grateful to her for not asking questions.

The dreams happened intermittently, and the possibility that he might have one while he was posted here was something that had crossed his mind, especially so when he had realised that he was going to have to share a room with Frank Campbell. When he had realised that it was something that he was going to have to deal with, if he had a nightmare and disturbed his bunkmate, but he had hoped to be spared the humiliation and embarrassment of having to offer an explanation while he was here at Thunderbird.

The fact that Sara Sykes hadn't made a big issue out of it led him to believe that she understood what had happened, indeed, he recalled the look in her eyes, the sympathy and understanding and the realisation that the last thing he needed was for someone to draw attention to it.

And then he remembered her touch, the gentle caress of her fingers on his cheek as she had wiped away the tears, and his heart lurched in his chest.

_**Dammit, what was it about that woman that turned him inside out!**_

He settled back against his pillows and closed his eyes, although he knew from experience that sleep was a long way off, and allowed himself the luxury of reliving the tantalising sensation of Sara Sykes firm thigh pressed up against his own as she sat beside him on the cot, and the warmth of her hand against his shoulder, her fingers against his cheek and the compassionate look in those unusual violet eyes and again felt the urgent need to gather her into his arms and crush her to him, to bury his face in her lustrous blue/black hair and draw in the unique scent of her before moulding his lips to hers and kissing the breath out of her ….

And for once he did not quash these errant thoughts, for they were infinitely more comforting than the memories of the dream that still lingered in the dark corners of his mind, and would hopefully inspire more pleasant dreams, when sleep finally did come to claim him.


	4. Chapter 4

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Four**

"C'mon Dobbs, keep pushing!"

Someone was yelling at him in a loud, agitated voice, as Stringfellow Hawke, still in his guise as Major Roger Dobbs, forced his arms to push the water out of his way and his legs to keep propelling him along, despite the fact that his lungs were burning fit to burst and he felt as if he had swallowed the whole damned swimming pool after the last turn.

"Keep it up! You can't quit now, I can't here the fat lady singing!"

Dobbs recognised Frank Campbell's voice now, urging him on from the poolside, and out of the corner of his eye, spotted Chuck McCrea's scowling countenance bobbing up and down behind him, no words of encouragement coming from him, as he watched Dobbs floundering on toward the other end of the pool with an evil twinkle in his eye.

Dobbs began to have a sneaking suspicion that the Navy man had more than a passing interest in the outcome.

He obviously had a bet going with the other trainees.

_**The man would make book on how long a guy spent in the john!**_

Dobbs thought sourly as he felt his leaden body beginning to fail, sinking deeper into the water and the edge of the pool still seemed an interminable distance away.

_**Hey, guys, drowning here, not waving!**_

"C'mon Roger, haul ass, and don't try to tell me you're drowning, buddy, it's using up too much energy, now move it!"

After spending another gruelling morning in the testing lab, participating in the now familiar endurance and stamina exercises, Dobbs, McCrea, and Campbell had retired to the locker room to change out of shorts and T-Shirts into swim trunks, and had assembled in the Olympic size swimming pool, measuring 25 metres wide by 50 metres long and 2 metres deep, that ran adjacent to the back of the lab.

After five minutes of playful splashing and hi-jinx to let off a little steam, they had been joined by more medics clad in white lab coats and clutching clipboards and had been called to order so that the session could begin.

The other three trainees, Webber, Shaw and Anders were following their own individual programmes this afternoon, Webber in the simulator, Shaw in the centrifuge, which to everyone's relief had not acted up since the incident with Frank Campbell on Dobbs first day at Project Thunderbird, six weeks ago, and Anders attending a routine session with Dr Van Doom.

There had been no more 'incidents' and the emergency landing that Dobbs and Anders had been forced to make almost three weeks ago had been ruled another accident, caused by stress fracturing of the bolts that held the canopy in place and metal fatigue.

Both men had had to accept the findings, relieved that no blame had been placed upon either of them and had chalked it up to experience, but they had both also heard whispers amongst their colleagues about it not adding up and the word 'jinx' had figured highly in everyone's vocabulary for a few days after the incident.

As he still had no backup on the base, Dobbs/Hawke had not been able to report the incident to Archangel. He had been relieved, for if word had gotten back to Dominic Santini, he might not have been quite so forgiving.

And, Dobbs had found himself thinking, what exactly had there been to report?

Just another little niggle, an inconvenience that meant that the unit couldn't maintain their flying hours for a couple of days, but that was a minor setback, and they had all benefited from the forty eight hours of R'n'R that they had been granted.

A thorough investigation into the incident had found nothing untoward and it had all been neatly explained, tied up with ribbons and finished off with a big red bow, as far as the top brass were concerned.

Raising doubts and suspicions that maybe it hadn't been an accident wouldn't help anyone.

And Dobbs still wasn't certain in his own mind, and he had no proof that someone had deliberately tinkered with the jet.

Now, it all seemed a very long time ago, and a lot of water had gone under the bridge.

_**And down my damned throat ….**_

Dobbs thought sourly as he again wallowed in the shallow waters of the Olympic size swimming pool.

The testing programme was back in full swing, and they were all being kept far too busy to dwell on whether the project was plagued with bad luck or if something even more sinister was going on.

Although, Dobbs suspected that good ole' McCrea was running a book on that too!

Today's aquatic session was another test to assess lung capacity, and had begun with each man strapping on oxygen cylinders and breathing regulators and sitting motionless on the bottom of the pool until their five minute air supply ran out.

They had then been instructed to release a small buoy so that the doctor assigned to them would know that they were out of air, and could start timing too see just how long each man could hold his breath before having to surface.

Next, after being allowed five minutes to recover, the only instruction each man had been given when re-entering the pool was to do as many laps as they could.

Roger Dobbs had seen the glint in McCrea's eye as he took up his starting position in the next lane and knew that the younger man believed he could out do him.

Always one to rise to a challenge, and still stinging from the constant reminders and digs to his ego that he was the oldest of the bunch, Dobbs had gritted his teeth and set his mind on forgetting every aching muscle and sinew in his body and getting through the pain barrier.

He should have known better, he thought sourly now.

McCrea had offered the silent challenge because he had already laid a bet with the other guys. Dobbs would bet the farm on it.

_**Dammit, he was the only one not making any money on his own outstanding performances!**_

He finally made a grab for the side, lunging for the handrail that ran just above the water line, dunking his head under as his momentum carried him forward and then bobbing back up to see a grinning Frank Campbell giving him a thumbs up as he reached down to offer Dobbs his hand, strong fingers closing around his wrist and hauling him easily out of the pool and dumping him on his ass on the ridged terracotta tiled floor.

"How much did you win, Frank?" Dobbs choked out, looking up at the younger man, pushing wet hair out of his eyes and gasping for air.

"Plenty," was the younger man's only comment as he grinned down at Dobbs. "I'm pleased to say that that stubborn streak of yours is ensuring that the Navy will soon be bankrupt," he chuckled at the sour look on Roger Dobbs face.

"Yeah, don't bet on it, because one day McCrea is gonna offer good odds that I keel over from a coronary on one of these little experiments, and I can't guarantee that he won't be right," Dobbs snarled, raising himself stiffly to his knees, feeling his legs shaking and his chest heaving, realising that he still didn't know how many laps he had completed.

"Touchy, touchy," Frank Campbell grinned like an idiot. "Don't take it thataways, besides, I think you're too stubborn to have a coronary!"

"I hope you're right," Dobbs muttered darkly. "So how did I do?"

"Not bad for an old timer."

"If you're not careful, this old time still has enough energy to punch your lights out."

"You were terrific, Major. It wasn't pretty towards the end there, but you clocked up twenty laps, that's four more than I managed and three more than McCrea."

Twenty laps, not bad, Dobbs had to admit to himself. When he had been younger, he could manage more, maybe twenty five, but he hadn't had the added strain of enduring all those other tests beforehand.

_**Well ok, Roger! **_He thought smugly to himself. _**Not bad at all.**_

A smile began to curve at his lips now as Frank Campbell offered him his hand once more and pulled him to his feet before slapping him jovially on the back.

"C'mon Major, I don't know about you, but I could eat a horse," Frank chuckled as both men began to make their way back to the locker room, neither man having eaten much at lunch because they had known what was in store for them later in the afternoon.

Campbell hit the shower first while Dobbs found a seat on one of the slatted wooden benches that lined the locker room, hoping that his limbs would stop shaking long enough so that he too could take a refreshing shower.

As he used a fluffy white towel to mop up the drips from his hair, suddenly the locker room was filled with tremendous noise, a loud siren sounding from pretty close by, and Dobbs almost jumped out of his skin and had to quickly cover his ears before he was deafened by the klaxon.

His heart came up into his mouth as he realised that it was the fire alarm sounding, and he somehow knew instinctively that it was not a drill.

McCrea and Campbell were both still showering, the noise of the running water and the Navy man's off key and very salty sea shanty masking the sound of the klaxon, so they were slower to respond than Dobbs, who clad only in his wet swim trunks and dripping water as he went, forced his legs to carry him out of the locker room and into the corridor beyond where he found several white coat clad people running in the opposite direction and the red alarm light over head flashing insistently.

Despite the cloying scent of chlorine from the pool still clinging to his body and the water droplets running down from his fringe and through his eyelashes into his eyes, Dobbs immediately smelled the acrid tang of smoke in the air, and glancing back down the corridor, to his horror spotted a cloud of thick white smoke drifting out of the testing lab.

_**Sara!**_

Immediately he set off at full pelt, his wet feet sliding on the shiny tiled floor and skidding around the corner he immediately ran into several more lab staff streaming hurriedly out of the lab, holding handkerchiefs or their coats over their mouths and noses, gagging and coughing as they hurriedly tried to escape the danger within.

Dobbs looked around frantically checking to see who was missing, and his heart lurched in his chest.

Sara Sykes was not amongst the scientists flooding out of the lab and pushing their way past him, and he knew that she had been working in the lab earlier that day because she had been assigned to monitor his condition during that morning's testing session.

Since the forced landing had put him in the observation ward overnight, and she had witnessed him in the throws of the beginnings of a nightmare, Sara Sykes attitude toward him had softened a little.

She had taken to smiling at him in a most charming and beguiling manner, and several times he had caught her admiring him, when she did not think that anyone was watching.

She hadn't made her interest in him blatantly obvious, but he wasn't stupid and recognised that something had changed.

She was always polite, always charming, always professional, never overly familiar, and he did not get the sense that she felt pity for him for his night terrors, more that she had somehow come to the conclusion that she understood his reserve and tendency to be silent and watchful much better now.

Still, there was no denying that her smile was genuinely warm, her manner much softer toward him, and although he had no idea why, Roger Dobbs did not find it unpleasant to be bestowed with that stunningly beautiful smile.

Nor could he forget the tenderness and affection with which she had touched his face that night, soothed away his tears, the expression on her face so understanding, so compassionate, telling him that there was nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to fear ….

Or the effect it had had on him.

He had been relieved to discover that no record of his nightmare had been entered into his medical record, and no mention made of it to Dr Van Doom, although he himself had briefly mentioned in passing to the good doctor that he had from time to time suffered recurring nightmares after Vietnam, during one of their early sessions.

Now, Roger Dobbs heart skipped several beats as he watched the people pushing past him, then he began to push his way beyond them, reaching the swing doors of the lab and barging his way inside.

The room was filled with acrid smelling dense white smoke, and he could hear the crackle of fire coming from the far side of the room, see the yellow flames dancing as they licked around the ceiling and far wall, and he immediately brought his hand up to cover his nose and mouth, trying to breathe in and swallow down a reflexive choking cough all at the same time.

Squinting through the smoke, he quickly scanned what he could make out of the lab in the thickening smoke, to see if he could find Sara Sykes, then moved deeper inside, hunkering down low, to where the air was a little less noxious, moving slowly forward, around the room, working his way around desks and equipment, until at last his bare feet collided with something solid on the ground.

Dobbs squatted down, chocking and coughing and squeezing stinging tears from his eyes, the acrid, pungent fumes stronger here, burning his lungs and eyes, and he found Sara Sykes lying silent and still on the tiled floor, her back to him, so he had no idea if she was alive or unconscious.

It was obvious to him that she had been closest to the seat of the fire and had quickly been overcome by the smoke and fumes, and he knew that he had to get her out of there fast.

He quickly reached out and rolled her gently toward him and was rewarded with a soft, low moan.

Feeling immense relief that she was indeed alive, and not seeing any obvious injury to her head or face, his first fear that she hadn't just passed out, overwhelmed by fumes, but that perhaps someone had attacked her, to ensure that she didn't escape the flames, Roger Dobbs slid his arms around Sara Sykes neck and shoulders and under her legs, then heaved her up, cradling her limp body against his own, which still glistened with the odd droplet of water.

Instinctively, reacting to his hands on her body and the sensation of suddenly being lifted off the ground, Sara Sykes reached up with one arm, slipping it behind his head, held on tightly to the man's neck, then brought the other arm, which had been hanging limply down beside her body, up to slip around the other side of his neck.

She opened her eyes to see whom her rescuer was, and was not at all surprised to find that it was Roger Dobbs, his face contorted as he tried not to cough and choke, his deep sky blue eyes boring into her, filled with a mixture of anxiety and relief as, she silently thanked him with her eyes, before burying her face in the cleft between his neck and shoulder as he carried her hurriedly back the way he had come.

It all seemed to be happening in slow motion, but despite the fact that her heart was racing in her chest and her lungs were burning, the smoke closing her throat and making it harder to drag in air, despite the fact that tears were stinging in her eyes and she felt dizzy and light headed, Sara Sykes was still able to take in the fact that he was practically naked, and that he smelled of chlorine.

At that moment he looked and felt magnificent.

His broad, solid, muscular chest was heaving under the strain of trying to draw in oxygen and carry the burden of her weight through the smoke filled room, and she could feel the muscles and sinews of his arms bunching and quivering against the backs of her knees and across her shoulder blades as he supported her weight.

Carried away by a powerful wave of emotion that she did not fully understand, Sara gave into the overwhelming desire to press her lips against the warm, firm golden skin that covered his shoulder bone, dipping them into the hollow at the base of his throat, justifying her actions by telling herself that it was by way of thanks, and expressing her gratitude, as she could not speak for trying to choke back her coughs, and suddenly she felt a tremor run through him in response to the touch of her warm lips to his flesh.

Sara Sykes was surprised by his reaction and raised her head to look up into his familiar countenance and was shocked by what she found.

The look in his deep sky blue eyes almost robbed her of what little breath she had left.

There was such shock and anguish there.

Terror.

But, she did not think it was because he was scared of the fire or the smoke.

If that was the case, why the hell had he come charging in here like Sir Galahad, uncaring of the danger to his own life and limb?

No.

His fears had an entirely different source, she guessed, as he continued to gaze down at her for a long moment, and she suddenly felt compelled to reach up with her free hand to gently cup his cheek with trembling fingers, offering him a little reassurance, only to be taken over once more by an irrational need to press her lips there too, the hand she had snaked behind his head sinking into his hair, fingers curling into the crisp wetness, drawing him down closer so that she could kiss his check, briefly, before he finally had to drag his face and his gaze away, needing to see where he was going.

It had only taken a split second, but something had happened between them during that brief exchange of looks, something that neither one of them could explain, but it was over in a heartbeat as, both of them choking and spluttering, Roger Dobbs swiftly crossed the lab and came charging out through the swing doors, almost colliding with McCrea and Campbell, who took in the scene with wide eyed astonishment before getting hold of their senses and moving people back out of Dobbs way.

Someone was shouting out orders to get oxygen as McCrea and Campbell herded everyone back down the corridor away from the smoke filled environs, and then someone else was barking orders for people to assemble at the fire points they had been assigned and report to their fire marshals, and someone else was yelling for someone to get fire extinguishers, by which time the bases' fire fighters had arrived on the scene and immediately took charge.

When he finally reached an area of corridor that was smoke free, Roger Dobbs felt his legs beginning to give way beneath him, his supply of adrenalin, the only thing that had been keeping him going, finally depleted, and stumbling he sank slowly to his knees, retaining enough presence of mind to make sure that the woman in his arms did not fall, or hit her head on the wall as he panted for breath.

He held Sara Sykes firmly against his quivering chest, dragging in air and coughing and hacking like an old man who'd smoked forty cigarettes a day for most of his life, as he eased himself down into a sitting position, moving Sara's body carefully so that she was now sitting in his lap, cradling her securely against him, her head resting gently against his shoulder bone, her ebony hair coming loose from the intricate knot she usually wore, tumbling freely around her face and shoulders and tickling his naked flesh every time she coughed.

Neither spoke, neither actually able too as they forced smoke out of their aching lungs and dragged precious air in, but the look they shared sent another jolt through each of them.

Completely unaware of anything else that was going on around him, Roger Dobbs suddenly felt compelled to lower his head and press his lips to Sara Sykes soft warm ones, his hand automatically coming up to cup her face, his thumb stroking her cheek tenderly as he gently moved his lips against hers, until again, the cough reflex kicked in and he quickly had to drag his mouth away to succumb to another hacking coughing fit.

Smothering her own desire to cough, Sara Sykes smiled up at Dobbs, her violet eyes huge in a pale face, filling with tears which spilled over through her lashes and rolled down her cheeks, as she reached out to push his wet fringe off his face, her eyes never leaving him as she silently thanked him for rescuing her, and he fixed his deep blue gaze upon her face, almost as though he feared he might never see her again and wanted to commit her face to memory.

Neither showing any inclination to release their hold on the other, they just continued to stare at each other for several long moments, and then suddenly someone was slipping oxygen masks over both of their faces and strong hands were lifting Sara out of his lap and placing her carefully onto a stretcher, while another pair of strong hands moved him on to a stretcher too.

Dobbs watched with an aching heart as Sara Sykes was carried away down the corridor and quickly out of his sight.

"Hey buddy, you ok?" Frank Campbell was squatting down beside him now, an anxious, earnest expression on his face as he regarded his Army colleague.

Consumed by another bout of hacking coughs, despite the oxygen, Roger Dobbs could only nod then he too was being lifted up off the ground and carried down the corridor.

He lay back against the stretcher and closed his eyes briefly, trying to rid his mind of the image of Gabrielle as she lay cradled in his arms in that godforsaken Libyan desert, the life draining out of her, knowing that there was nothing that he could do to save her.

Suddenly the image was replaced with Sara Sykes exotic eyes, huge and so dark in a pale face, eyes that blessed him and thanked him for saving her, while also anxiously taking in his terror and shock with genuine concern.

He had no idea what had just happened.

Why had he kissed her?

_**Dumb question ….**_

He told himself indignantly then remembered the sensation of her lips against his, and the fact that she had responded by kissing him back.

The only thing that should matter was that she was alive, that she was safe, but he could not get away from the fact that she could have died back there in the lab, another victim of whomever it was who was trying to destroy the Thunderbird Project, and even as he patiently endured the doctor's checking him over to make sure that he hadn't sustained serious damage from smoke inhalation, or been burned, Roger Dobbs could not stop the murderous thoughts running through his mind and the blackening of his heart, as he became even more determined to find the culprit, adamant that no-one else would die, making it a personal crusade, because he had almost lost someone else ….

And the next thought terrified him more than anything else.

_**Someone else that he cared about ….**_

Recalling the intensity of the relief he had felt when, as he turned Sara over, she had moaned gently and then, as he scooped her up, she had opened her eyes, and his heart had leapt in his chest and his first instinct had been to crush her to him, and thank God that she was alive ….

Wondering when he had started thinking of Sara Sykes as someone other than just another colleague he worked along side of, and how he was going to get beyond it and do the job he had been brought here to do, when he was in grave danger of wrecking it because he was beginning to have some very tender feelings for a very exceptional young woman.


	5. Chapter 5

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Five**

"C'mon Rog …. Let your hair down a little, man. After all, you don't know when we might get another chance," Frank Campbell cajoled as they exited the last class of the day and started walking down the corridor toward the accommodation blocks, still buzzing over the announcement by Captain Bristow, US Navy, that they were to be granted an evening's rest and relaxation off the base.

All Dobbs really wanted to do was hit the shower, then chow down and get some sack time.

He was still functioning mostly on adrenaline, especially after recent events, but he had a horrible feeling that the other trainees were not about to let the 'old man' plead fatigue, if it was going to spoil their chance at a little R 'n R.

"Yeah, Rog. You must know the unwritten rule. Never pass over any chance at liberty," This from Chuck McCrea, as he turned back to address the two Army officers.

"Liberty?" Dobbs arched an eyebrow in enquiry now.

"Yeah. Liberty, shore leave," McCrea clarified. "Whatever the hell you Army guys call it. It's a night out, away from this place. Permission from 'on high' to relax and unwind a little."

"Chase a little skirt …."

"Rough up a few locals …."

"Somehow, I don't think that's quite what 'on high' had in mind," Dobbs drawled sardonically.

"Who cares …."

"Let's face it, if we don't get away from here, if only for a couple of hours, we're all gonna go loco!" This, from Malcolm Shaw, who was sauntering along beside Chuck McCrea, ever the voice of reason in the group, when he wasn't clowning around with McCrea that was.

"So, Rog?"

"Yeah, Rog? You up for it?"

Dobbs let out a deep sigh, a scowl pinching his usually handsome features, as he wished that they would all stop looking at him as though he were the town killjoy.

And quit calling him Rog!

Of course, he appreciated the gesture from their joint command.

Some much needed down time for them to regroup and take their minds off the oppressive atmosphere that hung, along with the smoke from the lab fire, in the air, for most of the day, especially in light of recent events, knowing that a little R 'n R would go a long way to settling everyone's nerves, but he could not shake the notion from his head that something might happen while they were all in town, and he would miss a vital opportunity, or overlook a significant clue.

Yet, if something else did happen while they were all off the base, it would allow him to instantly dismiss from his list of suspects, his five trainee colleagues.

Unless, of course, the traitor was not working alone.

Which was always a possibility.

"C'mon Major," Frank Campbell again cajoled. "You earned it."

"We promise not to get too rowdy …."

"Or keep you up past your beddie byes time …."

"Don't know about all of you, but right now, I'd kill for a steak dinner with all the works!" This drew an impatient glare from Dobbs. "Oh yeah, no meat, right, Rog. Hard to find fish out here, but maybe they will have some bean curd or something!" This remark drew sniggers which again made Dobbs glare.

When would they get tired of bugging him about what he did and did not eat!

Why the hell was it so funny anyway? He just didn't see the joke.

"We can have a quiet game of pool. Maybe watch a little TV, sink a couple of beers."

"Maybe even get the old man a glass of warm milk …."

"Or cocoa …."

"You don't need me," Dobbs began, resenting the implication that he was past it, that he didn't know how to have a good time, or he was too straight laced, and would spoil any fun the guys might get into.

"One for all …. And all for one," Chuck McCrea cut him off before he could protest further.

"Yeah, top brass seem to think that we need to do a little more bonding. Not quite gelled as a unit yet. Wonder where they got that idea?"

"You got other plans, Rog? Hey, maybe he hooked himself up with a lady? Plenty of 'em around, some of 'em not too fussy either! Most of 'em only joined the service because they love to see a man in a uniform!" McCrea piped up again now, fixing Dobbs with a speculative look that told the Major that the younger man was far more perceptive than he might have otherwise given him credit for.

He had been there when Dobbs had pulled Sara Sykes out of that smoke filled lab yesterday.

Had he noticed the way the two of them acted around each other, and put two and two together?

It would have been hard for anyone standing within a country mile to have missed the kiss they had shared, Dobbs told himself angrily, suddenly finding himself hoping that he wasn't about to blush.

"Not such a bad thing, in your case, McCrea, as the uniform is the only thing you got going for ya!"

"And now that you are a bone fide hero an all …." Shaw gushed and Dobbs raised his eyes heavenward in exasperation once more.

"What's the matter, Major? Too good to drink with us?" Gene Webber sneered, and Dobbs found himself disliking the man even more, if that was at all possible.

"Now, now, Gene, behave. Play nice, or we may all get thrown out of kindergarten."

"Yeah, leave the guy alone. Besides, he's right, we don't need him along, peeing on our parade. If his heart isn't in it, he'll only spoil it for the rest of us."

"Yeah, let him go to bed early …. With a good book."

"Who needs him anyway? Face like that, he'd frighten off all the ladies before they could come close ..." Again Gene Webber made his dislike of Dobbs known to anyone who would pay attention.

"Stow that crap, sailor," Lieutenant Commander Chuck McCrea jumped in again now, not wanting the obvious animosity between this particular Navy flier, toward his Army counterpart, to get out of hand, and saw it as his responsibility to pull his Navy colleague's head in.

"Well?" This, from the last member of the group, Major Guy Anders, USAF, who had remained silent as he watched the proceedings, his face an unreadable mask.

Of all the trainees, Anders had been the one that Dobbs had found hardest to get a handle on.

Even all these weeks on, and even after what the two of them had gone through together, he was still pretty much a closed book.

Roger Dobbs finally let out a soft sigh of resignation and shrugged his shoulders non commitally.

Maybe he was being just a little too suspicious.

After all, it wouldn't be very clever for their saboteur to try something else, so close to the fire in the lab.

And if it turned out that the traitor was one of his trainee colleagues, he would be able to observe if they met up with anyone off the base.

He might get lucky, and come up with a lead.

"Why not?" Dobbs finally acquiesced.

"Yeah!"

"Way to go Rog …."

"Need to wash the sand out of my mouth …."

"After yesterday man, I'd have thought you'd want to taste something other than smoke, and the usual lousy coffee around here."

"Me, I'm tired of the smell of aviation fuel and boiled cabbage," Major Malcolm Shaw, USAF, chuckled.

"Is that what that stink is? I thought it was your socks, man …."

"Funny …."

"Right, that's settled then!"

"If we go now, we may even get to see some of the local girls, before they turn into pumpkins!"

"Man, it's been so long since I saw a civilian girl, I don't care if she looks like a horse …."

This comment caused raucous laughter amongst the other pilots, but as he tagged along at the rear of the group, Roger Dobbs found himself fighting down a pang of disappointment and regret.

He had hoped to go to the mess hall, to see if he could catch sight of Sara Sykes.

After what had happened between them yesterday, he had kept his distance. Primarily, because he had not wanted to see regret and rejection in her lovely eyes.

Torn between his need to know that she had recovered from the shock of yesterday, and self preservation.

Dobbs had hoped to at least catch a glimpse of her before he had been allowed to leave the medical facility this morning, given the all clear after gulping down half the swimming pool and then inhaling all that smoke the previous afternoon, but he hadn't been able to spot her and was too self conscious to ask where she had been put.

So, he had no choice but to leave the medical facility hoping that he might get a glimpse of her during one of the meal breaks during the day, just to satisfy himself that she was alright, but she had not put in an appearance either at breakfast or for lunch, and he had begun to suspect that her very over protective colleagues in the medical wing had confined her there over night, making sure that she did not suffer any ill effects from smoke inhalation, and had then probably suggested that she take the rest of the day off, to rest.

Part of him had wanted to see her in the hospital last night, wanting to make sure for himself that she really was alright, but he had known that it would not seem proper.

A little _**too **_forward ….

Even if he had been the one to pull her out of harm's way.

He had had all day to analyse how he felt about Sara Sykes.

And had finally come to the conclusion that it had nothing to do with feeling responsible for her, after saving her life.

And more to do with that strange sensation he got in the pit of his stomach every time she gazed at him out of those exotic, ever changing violet blue eyes of hers.

He had kept himself busy all day, with classes and tests and the obligatory chats with the psychologists and psychiatrists, who were constantly checking to make sure that he and the rest of his colleagues weren't losing the plot ….

Even more important, after the incident in the lab yesterday.

Maybe this leave off the base, if only for a few hours, had been their idea, to relieve some of the tension, he thought to himself now, as he strode along the corridor behind the rest of the team.

A change of scenery, away from the claustrophobic environs of the base and the close confines in which they were all forced to live and work.

And at the same time, Dobbs told himself that it was maybe not such a bad thing that he had not had a chance to talk with Dr Sykes.

For he had the strangest feeling that he would have made a grade A1 fool of him self if he had tried.

If, he hadn't already, that was.

He still wasn't sure what exactly was going on there.

And, he told himself, he did not have the time to find out.

There were far more important things to concentrate his attention on than a certain smart, sexy, feisty lady doctor ….

"Hey, Cinderella, what do you think I should wear to the ball?" Malcolm Shaw teased Frank Campbell now, and the burst of raucous laughter brought Dobb's thoughts back to the here and now.

"What about that French Maid's uniform you have tucked away in the back of your locker?" Chuck McCrea dead panned.

"Dress uniform, guys," Eugene Webber informed, and this drew a loud, collective groan from the ensemble. "We may be off duty, but we're still in the service. That means looking and acting appropriately."

"Ah shucks, and I had this new pair of high heels I just wanted to test drive …."

"Ok guys, you have thirty minutes to get cleaned up and report up top. I'll go see what the top brass are doing to organise us some transport. If you're not there after five minutes, we will go without you," Webber grew serious now, hoping that Shaw and McCrea would take the hint.

"Should we synchronize our watches, Sir!" Malcolm Shaw teased and Chuck McCrea let out a loud guffaw, disabusing Webber of any notion that he might have had in his head that he could order either one of them around.

They were already in a party mood and didn't intend to allow anyone to spoil their fun.

"We'll be there," Frank Campbell confirmed now, steering an indignant Webber away from the clowns, McCrea and Shaw.

"All of us," he added for good measure, throwing Roger Dobbs a meaningful look, as they all headed off down the corridor toward the showers.

Twenty minutes later, Roger Dobbs reported to the main reception area of the Admin Block and rode the elevator up to the surface, after noticing the admiring glances that he got from the female Navy Lieutenant, looking smart and efficient in her Navy whites, manning the reception desk, in Mary Harmon's absence, her shift having finished at five o'clock on the dot.

He had made an effort with his appearance, even though his heart was not really in the outing this evening, knowing that he was expected to make a good impression for the sake of the Army, in his clean and pressed dress uniform, cap placed at a jaunty angle on his head and shoes shined to mirror perfection.

He did not have long to wait for the others to join him, and soon the group exited the Admin block and headed for the motor pool, where Captain Bristow had ordered an ancient, lumbering, open topped truck to be at their disposal, driven by a smartly dressed young Ensign, and accompanied by a Navy Shore Patrol officer, the Navy's equivalent of Military Police, his presence there to act as a deterrent and make sure that during their furlough to the small town of Pinamint, the servicemen, whilst having a good time, maintained peaceful relations with the locals and the tourists alike.

As the sun disappeared beyond the distant horizon, setting the desert vista afire, and painting the sky with the prettiest and most vibrant shades of gold and orange and pink and purple, the truck pulled away from the compound and rattled and bounced along the rough, uneven road.

Dobbs found himself being tossed around in the back of the open topped truck, seated beside Frank Campbell and Malcolm Shaw who, as they made the trip to the nearest watering hole, was singing a ribald song at the top of his voice and trying to encourage his colleagues to join him when he got to the chorus.

Throughout the journey, Dobbs found his mind wandering.

He loved the desert at night, and Lord knows he had seen enough of it that way these past few weeks, but with the rapidly darkening sky, clear and vast, looking like a piece of smooth black velvet smattered with fiery, sparkling diamonds, and the moon so big and bright it looked as if you could just reach out and touch it ….

He found himself thinking that he would have loved to share it ….

With Sara Sykes ….

Then, dragging his thoughts back to the matter at hand, covertly watched the others as they laughed and teased and tried to guess who would get lucky with one of the local girls first.

Trying to work out which, if any of them, might be the traitor.

Shaw and McCrea had seemed to hit if off from the beginning. The jokers in the pack, a better double act than Abbot and Costello, but, both had demonstrated a fierce loyalty and ambition and the ability to do what needed to be done when the need arose.

Anders ….

He still didn't know about him yet.

He was so closed.

Not unlike himself, Dobbs thought.

Shut off, introverted and not inclined to invite any kind of personal involvement with the others.

Not easy to like ….

Even harder to trust ….

The way that he had reacted under pressure had softened Dobbs attitude toward him, just a little.

Gene Webber, their self appointed leader, strong sense of right and wrong, and a devotion to duty that was admirable. A stickler for the rules, he had his own code of conduct that he lived by, and he prided himself in always conducting himself with the utmost dignity and decorum.

His instant dislike of him, Dobbs suspected, was due to the fact that Webber had felt threatened by an older man with more experience and time in the service, joining their ranks, and possibly trying to muscle in as top dog, citing seniority.

In plain English, he felt threatened, having grown accustomed to seeing himself as the group's unofficial leader.

When that had not happened, and Dobbs had happily settled in as just one of the guys, Webber had seemed to lose any respect for him, probably deciding that Dobbs was a light weight, bleeding heart do-gooder, who felt that is was more important to fit in with the other men than to make his mark in the leadership stakes.

Dobbs didn't care why Webber disliked him so.

The feeling was mutual.

He found nothing likeable or endearing about the man as a human being, but had a grudging respect for him as a pilot.

Even if he was a _**Navy**_ pilot.

Still, their mutual dislike made it hard for Dobbs to decide whether Webber could be the traitor or not. Just because he was cold, callous and arrogant, it didn't naturally follow that he was a traitor and a murderer.

Just as the fact that he and Anders had been involved in that serious incident on the airfield, it didn't automatically follow that either man was now considered to be less likely to be a traitor.

If it hadn't been an accident, if someone _**had**_ tampered with the aircraft, then it had been a damned good way of drawing suspicion away from him self.

A pretty crazy thing to do, especially if things had gone wrong, and they had both wound up dead.

Dobbs knew that he was completely innocent, but as for Anders …. Well, the jury was still out on that one.

And Dobbs knew that he had to keep his own personal feelings out of it. Even with the guys he had come to like, like Shaw and McCrea.

And Frank Campbell.

His bunk mate.

The Viking god, Thor.

Likeable, affable, intelligent and one helluva pilot too, he was perhaps the one man in the group that he had gotten close to in any way, but, Dobbs suspected, it had more to do with the uniform that they had in common than anything else.

They shared a room, and therefore had to co-exist peacefully in a small space, so they had both made an effort not to irritate or anger the other, respecting each other's space and privacy whenever possible.

As men, they were a mixed bunch, some easier to like and get along with than others, but as pilots and military service men, they were the best of the best.

If push came to shove, in a dogfight, Dobbs knew that he would trust any one of them with his life.

Just as they could all trust him to be there for them, should they need his assistance.

That was what made it so damned hard to believe that any one of them might be the traitor.

A cold blooded murder.

They were all, quite naturally, a little wound up about the recent events in the lab, and their nerves tightly strung as they endeavoured to keep up with the constant pressures of the project.

This latest incident had also been ruled an accident.

A power surge that had caused a short in a fuse box, blowing the box door open and sending sparks flying into a nearby pile of boxes containing alcohol soaked antiseptic wipes, and wads of cotton wool, which had resulted in the fire, but the trainees were not stupid, and were perfectly capable of linking these niggling little incidents together, just as he was, and coming to the conclusion that, at the very least, the project had some kind of jinx.

This outing into town tonight was probably just what they all needed.

A little normality in an otherwise crazy world.

As they finally arrived at their destination, Pinamint, Roger Dobbs wondered how anyone could go so far as to call the place a town. It was a cluster of buildings, spread out on either side of the highway, with one bar which was part of the local hotel, and not a whole lot else.

Still, he supposed, if you were thirsty enough, this place could look like the most exotic oasis, hidden away in the middle of the desert.

It was also so remote it was hardly likely that they would encounter any trouble.

The proprietor of the bar would undoubtedly think that his numbers had come up on the lottery with the arrival of six unexpected customers, all with money in their pockets and the kind of thirsts that only service in the armed forces could build.

"Mind your manners, ladies," the Navy Shore Patrol officer jibed as they bailed off the back of the truck and sauntered toward the bar.

"First round's on me," Chuck McCrea offered as they pushed open the door revealing the interior of the bar, which had the lights turned down low and the jukebox turned down even lower.

"First round? You mean only round, don't ya, Chuck?" Malcolm Shaw teased, nudging him in the ribs as they tumbled through the door.

"I'll give you a hand," Eugene Webber offered and both Navy men headed toward the small bar leaving Dobbs, Campbell, Anders and Shaw to look around the dimly lit room.

"Ah ha!" Malcolm Shaw exclaimed, spotting a battered old pool table in the back of the room and hurried over to start gathering together cues and balls, and was slowly followed by Anders.

"Let's find somewhere to sit," Dobbs suggested to Campbell, casting his eyes around to find an empty booth.

There were plenty to choose from.

There were one or two locals occupying the booths, and side tables, nursing mugs of beer with condensation running down the sides of the glasses and wicker baskets filled with beer nuts or Pretzels or fries.

However, as he scanned the room for the darkest and quietest booth to claim, wondering if this constituted a busy night in town, Roger Dobbs spotted two things that surprised the hell out of him.

The first was Sara Sykes, clad in casual jeans, sneakers and a black T-shirt, her hair tied back in an intricately woven plait which hung down her back almost to her hips, sitting in one of the back booths, a glass of orange juice on the table before her ….

And she was not alone.

Her companion was a man of about forty, tall, heavy set and with dark hair slicked back off his face, and a nose which looked as though it had not been a stranger to a fist over the years, crooked and bent and had probably been broken several times.

They appeared to be deeply engrossed in each other, listening intently whenever one of them spoke, voices low so as not to be overheard, as they leaned in closer, and for a brief instant, Dobbs felt his anger flare.

_**Dammit!**_

_**He had been so worried about her all day.**_

_**And here she was, with some other guy!**_

And, after what had happened between them yesterday!

Then he was angry with himself, briefly.

He should have known that someone like Sara Sykes would not be alone.

And what had happened between them yesterday was fuelled by fear and relief and adrenalin.

She could have died, and he had saved her.

All of these things flashed through his mind in a matter of seconds, and then he quickly dismissed them, for there was something else that he needed to double check.

He scanned the room once more, and yes, there was one other patron of interest to him, sitting at the bar on a high stool, nursing a mug of beer and what looked like a bourbon chaser.

And Roger Dobbs recognised the man's back, grizzled grey hair and battered red silk baseball cap immediately.

Dominic Santini.

As Dobbs watched his two Navy colleagues trying to attract the attention of the bartender, Dominic Santini swivelled around on his stool and, for the briefest of moments, made eye contact with him.

Neither man showed any sign of acknowledgement to the other, and Santini returned his attention to his drinks, propping one elbow up on the bar counter and pushing at his nearly empty beer glass with a gnarled brown finger.

"What's a guy gotta do around here to get another drink?" Santini slurred drunkenly, and Dobbs raised an eyebrow in amusement.

_**Time to sit down and watch the show.**_

_**Dominic Santini, centre stage.**_

It was obvious Santini was here for a reason, and didn't have time to waste in tap dancing around to contrive a way to get him, Dobbs, alone.

So ….

_**Wait for it ….**_

_**Wait for it ….**_

"I said …. What's a guy gotta do to get a drink around here!" Santini's voice rose a notch and he slammed his now empty beer glass down on to the counter top, shattering it into hundreds of tiny, diamond like pieces.

"Hey, take it easy Gramps," Frank Campbell, who had now taken up his place in the booth called out. "Guy only has one pair of hands."

"Who asked your opinion …. And don't call me Gramps …. Fought in two wars so you can have the privilege of calling me Gramps …. I don't think so …. Gimme another beer!"

Santini roared, and Dobbs watched as the other two patrons, in the rear booth now both turned their heads to watch with curiosity, and for the briefest instant, he made eye contact with Sara Sykes and was rewarded with a moment of satisfaction at the somewhat startled look in her eyes as she recognised him.

"Give the old man a beer, on us …. And maybe it'll keep him quiet," Chuck McCrea offered now as the bar tender watched, with obvious anxiety, the build up of tension in the older man further down the bar, probably able to see what was going to happen next.

"I can buy my own damned beer, _**Navy!**_" The last word was uttered almost as though it was an expletive and Roger Dobbs rolled his eyes heavenward.

_**Here it comes ….**_

"Shouldn't we do something?" Frank Campbell whispered to him out of the side of his mouth.

"Only if you want your head handed to you on a tray," Dobbs mumbled back.

"But …."

"You don't think the Navy can handle it?" He retorted sarcastically as he arched an eyebrow.

"Whatsamatter with ya, huh? My money not as good as the Navy's? I didn't fight in two wars to have to stand in line behind the damned Navy to get a glass of beer!" Santini bellowed, wobbling drunkenly on his barstool, courting disaster, or, so it seemed.

"Here Pops," Chuck McCrea slid a full mug of beer gently down the highly polished counter top, but instead of gently coming to a stop just within the old guy's reach, somehow it managed to find its way into Dominic Santini's lap.

"Mamma Mia!"

The old man roared, leaping off his bar stool to try to avoid the contents of the glass settling in his lap, but it was too late and his pants were soaked with ice cold beer in seconds.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It was an accident …." McCrea yelped as a red faced and extremely threatening looking Dominic Santini, threw his stool over out of his way as he stalked the short distance between them and without a pause, rolled up his big, meaty right fist and took a huge, wild swing at McCrea's jaw.

Missing ….

On purpose, Dobbs was sure, but Chuck McCrea didn't know that, as he ducked and dodged and tried to get out of the way as another wild swinging fist, this time a left hook, came in his direction.

"Hey man, look, it was an accident. I didn't mean for it to spill all over you. I thought it would be a nice gesture. Buy you a beer. Listen to your war stories," McCrea babbled, taking a defensive step backward.

"Don't patronise me, you little worm!" Santini was swinging wildly now, and getting more and more red in the face with each attempted punch.

Eugene Webber had made a discreet withdrawal and was standing just a little ways away, trying hard not to laugh out loud as his colleague kept trying to avoid getting hit, by accident, by a lucky punch from the old geezer.

"Major!" Frank Campbell insisted in his ear now and Dobbs let out a ragged sigh. "Don't you think we ought to do something? Before that SP officer comes in here to find out what the ruckus is all about, and decides to call the cops …."

"Be my guest …." Dobbs waved his hand and made to move out of the way for the younger man, then noticed Frank Campbell looking from the Major's silver oak leaves on his shoulders to his own Captain's insignia.

"Alright. Alright," Dobbs sighed impatiently, scanning the bar to see what kind of reaction the little scene was getting from the other patrons, noting the amusement on the faces of a couple of the younger guys who were sipping from mugs of beer at tables around the bar, silently routing for the older man, and biding their time to see if the other uniformed men would get drawn in to the ruckus.

Dobbs didn't think that there was much chance that it would get ugly, but, he also couldn't take the chance that someone might decide to get brave and wade in there to help.

"You round up the guys. I think we wore out our welcome already. Best beat a hasty retreat before the locals decide to invite themselves to the dance. I'll try to calm the old coot down and get him cleaned up …. And try to smooth things out with the bartender," Roger Dobbs sighed deeply once more, watching as Dominic Santini loomed large over the Navy officer, his usually placid features flushed and twisted into a venomous, murderous expression.

"Wait for me at the truck, and keep that SP busy, and, try not to look so damned guilty, Frank. _**We**_ didn't actually do anything wrong," Dobbs reminded, wrestling with a smirk, as Campbell slid out of the booth and beckoned to the other two officers from the Air Force to collect Webber and get the hell out of Dodge.

Discretion, in this case, definitely being the better part of valour!

Dominic Santini really had the bit between his teeth now, indeed, he hadn't had this much fun since he and Hawke's father had been in Europe, single handedly kicking Hitler's ass across France and all the way right back to Germany ….

He lined up to take another punch, aware, as he knew that he was meant to be, of Stringfellow Hawke, wearing the uniform of a Major in the US Army, and looking very muscular and healthy, impressive and smart, and too much at home in it too, he noted, came up slowly and purposefully behind him, and carefully grabbed his arm and gently held it up behind his back, just as he was about to throw the punch, a real haymaker, which, he suspected, would have landed squarely on the young Navy fella's jaw.

"Easy Soldier," Dobbs spoke in a low, deep voice that had much more authority in it than if he had yelled at Santini.

The older man, sensing when Hawke released his grip on his arm, made a huge show of struggling and fighting the younger man off and turning on him to glare at him.

"'Hattenshun!" Dobbs bawled, stopping Santini mid stride. "Don't you know to salute an officer, Soldier!" He barked out now, effectively stopping the older man dead in his tracks.

"Sir!" Santini immediately threw back his shoulders and raised his hand in salute. "Major, Sir!"

"What rank were you?"

"Sergeant."

"Well, stand down, Sergeant. We don't want any trouble. We just came in for a quiet drink and didn't mean to step on anyone's toes," This the Major said loud enough for the bar tender to hear, as well as Sara Sykes and her companion in the rear booth, who were, it appeared trying to leave discreetly by a back door, Dobbs noted, as he glanced at McCrea and then flicked his eyes toward the front exit, indicating that the younger man should beat it.

"So, we will leave, nice and peaceable like, and just to show you there are no hard feelings, I'll stand you a round of drinks. One veteran to another. Agreed?" Dobbs offered calmly and in sincere tones, not wanting to further antagonise the older man.

"Since when were the Army and the Navy drinking buddies?" Santini glowered at the Army Major defiantly, although he held his rigid stance to attention in due deference to the other man's rank.

"It may have escaped your notice, but we do all work for the same paymaster. Have you never heard the old expression, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer?" Major Dobbs lowered his voice, just a little now, and smiled conspiratorially at the old man, then raised his voice slightly once more as he continued.

"A little friendly rivalry over a football game is one thing, Sir, but the professional men and women serving in the armed forces of the United States of America can rise above those things, when duty calls."

Dobbs watched as Santini rolled his eyes heavenward and tried not to laugh out loud, and marvelled at his own ability to keep a straight face.

"So, will you accept my offer of good will, Sir? A round of drinks …. One combat veteran to another."

"You fought combat?"

"Sir. Yes, Sir," Dobbs confirmed quietly. "Three tours," he added for good measure.

"Ok," Santini agreed somewhat ruefully, noting out of the corner of his eye as the other young fella hastily took his leave.

"Good. But first, I think we should try and get you cleaned up. Man, Sergeant, you are one mean drunk, you know that?"

"Sir! Yes, Sir!" Santini roared with laughter, as though he had just been paid the greatest compliment anyone could have given him. "So where did you serve then, sonny?"

"Vietnam, Sir …."

He allowed the Major to take his arm once more and staggered drunkenly as Dobbs guided him out back toward the men's room.

Once inside, Santini went over to the row of sinks and turned the cold water on full blast while Stringfellow Hawke checked each of the stalls to make sure that they were completely alone.

When they were satisfied that it was safe to talk, both men grinned at each other and then burst into laughter as Santini strode over to Hawke and dragged him into a strong bear hug, clapping him jovially on the back, pummelling the breath out of his young friend, before putting him away from him and taking a step back so that he could take a good look at him.

"You enjoyed that," Hawke smiled, genuinely pleased to see his old friend, even if he was puzzled by his sudden appearance in the desert bar.

"Sure did. Kind of a pity you had to break it up," Santini pulled Hawke back into his arms once more and gave him a huge squeeze. "Good to see ya, kid."

"You too, Dom."

"So, this is where you've been hiding yourself?" Santini said as he drew away from Hawke once again, and this time Hawke recognised his tone of voice.

_**Disapproval.**_

_**Disappointment.**_

_**Anger.**_

"What's the matter? Couldn't pick up a phone and give your old friend a call, just to put him out of his misery?"

His expression was one of accusation and quiet despair, and Hawke knew what it must have cost his old friend, not knowing where he was, or what danger might have befallen him.

"No, wait, I forgot …. You were away, visiting Aunt Lillian."

"Dom," Hawke let out a deep, shoulder raising sigh and begged his old friend to understand him, with a penetrating look.

When the older man did not relent or relax his angry bearing, Hawke let out another deep sigh, this time, of resignation.

"You're here, I assume, because Archangel sent you?" He kept his voice low and neutral now, because, deep down inside, he knew that Dominic Santini had the right to be a little pissed with him.

He was rewarded with a half shrug from Santini.

"Therefore, I assume, he must have told you something of why I am here, and what I am trying to do."

Again a shrug rose from Santini's shoulders.

"And, he must have told you that it was _**his**_ decision, not mine, to keep you and the Lady out of this."

"He did," Santini snorted. "And since when did he become your puppet master? Pulling all your strings?" Santini mocked now.

"Dom," Hawke threw him an appealing look. "He didn't give me any choice," he sighed deeply, when Santini refused to soften his stance.

"And I suppose he put a gun to your head to make you lie to me?"

"I didn't lie …."

"Aunt Lillian …." Santini reminded in a cold voice.

"Dom, I knew that you would understand. I knew that you would know that I was involved in something that I couldn't tell you about. I didn't lie …. Well, not exactly. I …. Ok, I, um, misled you. Just a little. I didn't mean to hurt you, or want you to think you were being shut out. But, I wasn't the one in control. I'm still not the one who is in control. Now, can we please move on?"

"I was worried sick about you all this time! Geez, I didn't know if you'd been thrown in jail, and Michael was as much help as ... As …." Santini blustered.

"I missed you too, Dom," Hawke interrupted, wrestling with a smile now, knowing that the hardest part was over and that Dominic Santini had gotten it off his chest and was now returning to character.

"Do you think I've enjoyed being back in this uniform again? Not knowing whom I can and can't trust? Without backup? Dammit, I was never more pleased to see anyone in my life than I was to see you sitting at that bar tonight," Hawke let out a deep, ragged sigh. "I'm sorry if I hurt you. Truly, I am, and I'm sorry if I have disappointed you too, but I really did not have any choice."

Dominic Santini watched the hurt and the conflict on his young friend's face, and knew that he was being straight with him.

_**Time to let him off the hook.**_

"So why are you all here, tonight?" Santini decided to change the subject. "I've been to every bar in the area, every night for more than a week, on the off chance, and then suddenly, tonight, bingo …."

"There was another incident on the base yesterday. A fire in one of the labs, nothing serious," Hawke brushed off Santini's concerned look now. "I wasn't there when it started, so don't ask …. And the top brass have ruled it as an accident. But, I guess they thought we could all do with a little R 'n R, away from the base," he explained and Santini nodded in understanding.

"So?" Santini glared at the younger man now.

"So?" Hawke frowned back.

"So tell me the rest of it," Santini snarled, and Hawke knew that he should have known better than to try to hide something from his dear old friend, even if it had been to spare him pain and heartache.

The older man could read him like a book.

And so a little awkwardly, Hawke found himself recounting the tale of his near miss in the jet fighter with Anders a couple of weeks back, sticking to the bare facts, trying to play down the seriousness of it, but Dominic Santini was no fool, and when he was done talking, Stringfellow Hawke could see the anxiety and concern etched into the older man's face as he remained silent.

"So?" Hawke prompted after a few moments of awkward silence and Santini frowned at him.

"So?"

"So, you being here, it must be important. Archangel wouldn't have asked you to come if it wasn't important."

"Correct," Santini's tone remained cool, but his rigid stance softened, just a little now, enough to indicate to Hawke that they were getting back to the way things usually were between them.

"And before you ask, yes, I did tear a strip off him too, for dragging you into this, alone, and for keeping me out of the loop."

Santini spoke softly now and this told Hawke more than all his raised voices and ranting Italian outbursts, just how hurt and worried his old friend had been about his dropping out of sight like that.

"I understand that a crazy old coot like me would find it kinda hard to pass muster in the Army these days, but I feel sure that he could have found some way for me to be close by …. For back up."

"And you told him so," Hawke smirked now, well able to picture Santini giving the Deputy Director of Special Projects at The Firm, a healthy piece of his mind, no doubt punctuated by several long and voluble bursts of Italian expletives.

"I certainly did," Santini mustered a grin now.

"So? Is that why you're here, Dom? To tell me that he's finally going to get someone in on the inside, to cover my six?"

"Sorry kid," Santini let out a deep sigh now. "Seems Uncle Sam has closed the door in his face. Been giving him the run-around for weeks now, fobbing him off with tales that they aren't assigning any new staff to the project, no matter what the reason. Too antsy about any more new faces showing up, in light of everything that's happened. He don't like it, but he's having to swallow it …. For now."

"So, I'm on my own," Hawke sighed deeply.

"You're on your own …." Santini scoffed and rolled his rheumy grey eyes heavenward. "Alone he says …. Kid ….When are you gonna learn, you ain't _**never**_ on your own?" He fixed cool grey eyes on Hawke now. "You've got me. Always," he told the young man in a soft, solemn voice, those grey eyes sparkling with the love he felt for the young man, clearly visible for him to see. "And _**I**_ don't have to take orders from anyone."

"Dom," Hawke protested weakly, for he was secretly glad to have the older man in his corner.

Taking some reassurance from having the old team back together again.

After a fashion.

Even though it did give him something else to worry over.

The old man's safety and welfare when he couldn't always be around him to protect him.

"Stow it, String …. Or should I call you, Roger?"

"Just don't call me Rog …. If you want to keep your teeth," Hawke chuckled, then grew serious quickly. "Dom …."

"Look, like it or not, I'm stayin'," Santini grew defiant once again, his back straightening rigidly once more. "We can work something out …. About contacting each other, and I'll be close at hand, if you should need the Lady. I'm staying, so get used to the idea, Soldier."

"Sir, yes Sir!"

This time Hawke's smile was wide and genuine, reaching his deep blue eyes and making them sparkle.

"Thanks Dom. So?"

"So what?"

"Archangel's message?" Hawke prompted once again, rolling his eyes heavenward in exasperation. Sometimes, the old man was just the limit. "If you're not here to tell me about back up …."

"Oh yeah …. Well kiddo, it seems someone ran a background check on you, er, I mean, Roger Dobbs."

"Only to be expected."

Hawke sighed deeply now and watched as Dominic Santini sauntered over to the nearest sink and ran his hands under the fast flowing cold water, then grabbed a handful of paper towels and dampened them a little before swatting ineffectively at the beer stains on his pants, with them.

Archangel had told him as much, Hawke now recalled. That was why Marella had gone to such great lengths to build a solid background cover story that would be believable and would stand up to any and every kind of scrutiny.

"He thought you should know."

"Any idea who?"

"No."

"Terrific …."

"Yeah, and this is the guy you expect to bail you out of trouble," Santini sneered now, giving up with the wad of damp tissues as he was only making matters worse.

"He doesn't have any ideas at all?"

"Nope. Just that somebody ran your …. Er …. I mean Roger's name through official channels, and it got flagged up on their system too. You got any thoughts?" Hawke shrugged in response.

"Top brass, maybe. They all seem to have an inflated opinion of their importance out there. But, new guy, any CO would want to double check on the official line, especially if his service record didn't show up with him. He took his sweet time over it though, although, Jardine strikes me as a hardnosed kinda guy, and he would want to know what kind of officer he'd been sent, to make sure that he didn't let him or the Army down. As for Bristow and Williams, both might have been curious enough to see if they could dig up a little dirt. Something to hold over Jardine."

"Or the bad guy …. More likely," Santini pointed out. "You stepped on anyone's toes lately?"

"No more than usual. Although, there is one guy out there who ain't ever gonna be Roger Dobbs best buddy," Hawke quipped. "Lieutenant Commander Eugene Webber, US Navy. Not the sailor who squared up to you though, Sarg," Hawke grinned now. "The long and the short of it is, Dom, I've been doing as I was told. I've kept my head down and my eyes open."

"And?"

"And, I'm damned if I know."

"Webber?"

"No. My gut tells me he's about as stand up a guy as you can get. He just doesn't like the idea of someone else muscling in on his authority. Likes to think he's top dog."

"Aah. You want me to get Michael to do a little digging?"

"Guess it wouldn't hurt. In the meantime, I'll just have to be more observant and careful. Someone obviously got curious enough to check Roger out. Guess I'll know soon enough if they didn't like what they learned about him."

"Yeah, that's what bothers me, kid."

"I'll be ok, Dom," Hawke assured now.

"Anything you want me to pass on to Michael?"

"Yeah. The food sucks."

"Can't fish for trout in the desert, huh?" Santini chuckled at the sour look on Hawke's face now. "Anything else? Anyone you want checking out besides Webber?"

"No."

Hawke would dearly have loved to have asked for more background information on Sara Sykes, but then wondered if he really should tie up the Firm's resources on his own personal interest in her.

Yes, he supposed, he could have argued to Archangel that he had a legitimate reason for checking her out.

After all, she had been the most prominent victim of the latest incident.

But he didn't really believe that she had been the prime target, and he certainly didn't seriously think that she might be involved in the sabotage of the project.

She hadn't even been at Thunderbird when all of this had kicked off.

Still ….

He couldn't dismiss the idea out of hand completely.

Because …

Like it or not ….

No matter how much he might not want to have to believe it.

It was possible that she might have been an accomplice.

The saboteur might have decided that he needed someone else to draw the heat off of him, and had gotten her to cause another accident, very cleverly making sure that she was right there in the heart of it, and thus drawing suspicion off her too.

No-one believing that she would deliberately put herself in danger like that.

Just as no one would believe he or Anders would deliberately put themselves in danger in that fighter jet ….

But ….

Hawke just didn't buy it.

It didn't feel right.

Putting his own personal feelings for her aside.

It still didn't feel right.

His gut was telling him that she was as straight as an arrow.

That what you saw was what you got.

Sincere.

Honest.

Trustworthy.

He would stake his life on it.

And, if he was wrong?

Then it really might come down to that.

Staking his life on it.

No.

She had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Michael ain't gonna like it. He had hoped that you might have something by now."

"I don't like it either, Dom …. And I'd hoped to be far far away from here by now myself," Hawke ground out, leaving the older man with no doubts that this was in any way a vacation for him.

"I can't help it if they all seem to be pretty stand up kinda guys now can I? But, I haven't been around them long enough to really know any one of them that well, and if I have to check out every damned man and woman on the base, I'll be there until hell freezes over. Do you have any idea just how many people there are out there, Dom?"

"Enough to keep you pretty busy for a little while. Not enough to keep you out of trouble, I'm guessing."

"That's what I'm here for, Dom. To look for trouble," Hawke reminded coolly.

"And you don't ever seem to have any problem finding it," Santini countered.

"Does Archangel have anything _**helpful**_, for me?"

"Nah. Just thought you should know that someone has taken an interest in you. Thought it would help you to stay focused …. Keep you on your toes."

"I've got plenty of things to stay focused on and keeping me on my toes, Dominic. So, you staying in town?"

"This town?" Santini smirked then. "You gotta be kidding me, right? I booked a room in a motel a little ways down the highway."

He dumped the wad of shredded, damp tissue in the trash and reached into his pants back pocket, extracting a scrap of paper and handed it out to Hawke.

"My office number," he grinned as he watched Hawke glance down at the number, then fold the piece of paper and slip it into the back pocket of his own pants.

"The Lady?"

"She's fine. Ready to go whenever you give the go ahead."

"Good. Well, we'd better get out of here. Don't want to give the guys something else to speculate about."

"Hey, I'm not _**that**_ easy! Even if I was that kind of guy!" Santini let out a loud guffaw as he noted the look on Hawke's face.

"You know something, Dom …. You and I have gotta stop meeting like this," Hawke sighed deeply again.

"So, what else are the guys speculating about?" Santini arched an eyebrow in curiosity now.

"The usual stuff," Hawke replied vaguely.

"Ah ha! The pretty lady in the back booth," he grinned. "I saw you looking at her …. And the way she was looking back at you."

"Dom .…"

"So, who is she?"

"Just a lady doctor, from out there at the base," Hawke said in dismissive tones now.

"Does this lady doctor have a name?"

"Sara Sykes. Did you see the guy she was with?"

"Jealous, huh?"

"Dom …."

Now there was a warning in Hawke's voice and Santini had heard the tone before, and knew that it meant that he should back off.

"The guy?"

"About six five, heavy set, dark hair, face like a very bad boxer?"

"That's the one."

"Can't say I noticed him," Santini chuckled. "But, her? Well, kinda hard to miss that one," he whistled softly through the gap in his teeth, grinning broadly, then pulled himself together as he noted the murderous, impatient look on Stringfellow Hawke's face.

"Ok, they didn't look all lovey dovey, if that was what you are asking. They had a drink, a long serious looking kinda chat, but then you and the guys arrived and …. Well, I couldn't help noticing them trying to sneak out the back door," he regarded Hawke thoughtfully now, realising that there was something in the young man's eyes that he couldn't read. "Wanna talk about it?"

"The fire in the lab yesterday, I know I said it was nothing serious, but Sara was caught in it. Breathed in a lot of smoke."

"Don't tell me. You went charging in there and rescued her," Santini let out a deep sigh. Hawke made no answer, just shrugged his shoulders and again Santini sighed.

"You and that damned hero complex," he chastised but Hawke could see pride sparkling in his grey eyes now, along with the disapproval and concern that he was feeling.

"Dom, maybe you should ask Michael to check Dr Sykes out too. Discreetly. I can't figure why someone might want her hurt, or want her dead. But, I can't rule out the chance that the fire wasn't an accident, and someone meant to get her out of the picture."

"Ok."

"If she's a target Dom, I need to know. Might lead me to our bad guy. If he goes after her again …."

"Or if she's mixed up in this thing too, you might be able to use her to flush out the bad guy."

"Maybe," But the look on his face told Santini that he didn't believe that the good doctor was anything more than she appeared to be.

An innocent victim, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"I think she'll check out. But it won't hurt to make sure. And that is my only interest in her, Dom," Hawke added, noting the expression on his old friend's face now.

"Ok kid, I believe you," Santini grinned now. "She did look kinda cute …."

"I'm leaving now, Dom," Hawke growled before Santini went off on one of his jags. "And by the way, Sarg, I meant it when I said you were one mean drunk."

"Thanks!" Santini beamed. "Haven't had that much fun since me and your Dad …."

"Night, Dom. Keep in touch."

"Yeah, you too …. And watch your ass, kid."

"Oh, youbetchya!"

As he exited the men's room and casually sauntered over to the bar, where the bartender was carefully brushing up the tiny crystals of shattered beer glass that Dominic Santini had smashed on the countertop during his angry outburst, and the larger shards of glass littering the floor, from the mug that had smashed after depositing its contents all over the old man's lap, Roger Dobbs flicked his gaze casually around the now quiet bar, peace and order restored, and immediately noticed the absence of Sara Sykes and her companion.

_**No surprise there then.**_

"Hey, pal," he called out to the man who was now busy mopping up the spilled beer around the apron of the bar. "Set up a round for the old guy, for when he gets back," Dobbs waved a bill at the bartender, knowing that he had to make good on his offer to buy the old soldier a round of drinks, if only to make it look good in front of the locals. "And one for yourself," he added, then peeled off another couple of bills from the roll he had taken out of his back pocket. "And this is to pay for any damage …. And for your trouble."

The bar tender stopped mopping and straightening up a little, snatched the bills from between Dobbs fingers and then flicked his gaze toward the door to the street, and Roger Dobbs took this to be his cue to leave.

_**Do not pass go.**_

_**Do not collect two hundred dollars ….**_

"Goodnight," Dobbs mumbled and sighed deeply as he gave the bartender a brief salute and received another look that told him in no uncertain terms that he and his friends in uniform would not be welcomed back any time soon.

No problem.

The beer was probably warm anyway, Dobbs thought sourly to himself as he shoved open the door to the street and felt a waft of the now cooling desert breeze caress his cheek, as he stepped out onto the sidewalk and found Frank Campbell waiting for him.

"Everything ok back there, Major?"

"Sure," Dobbs assured, striding past the younger man and walking toward the truck, where the others were regarding him with varying degrees of curiosity or disappointment, the SP officer waiting to be filled in on the outcome of the incident in the bar. "The old coot just had one too many. It happens to the best of us, Frank."

"Major? Do we have a problem?" The Shore Patrolman asked in a businesslike tone of voice.

"No, Officer. Just an old geezer letting beer get the better of his temper and his tongue. It's ok now. I listened to him ranting on about back there in his day. He fought in Europe, in World War 2 and again in Korea …. Sometimes, officer, booze can be a great anaesthetic, and other times, it makes us forget our limitations, and we think we can take on the world again. He just wanted someone to show him a little respect, and to listen to his yarn."

"And the bartender?"

"I laid a few bills down to cover any damages, and for his trouble. Let's just say he didn't throw them back in my face, but, I don't think there will be a red carpet laid out for us here any time soon."

"Thank you, Major. Ok, ladies, lets move on out of here."

"Ah shucks, man, we can't go back to the base yet," someone complained. "The night is still young."

"And I'm still working on a thirst."

"Ok ladies, I guess we could try our luck down the highway a little …. And this time, play nice, huh?"

"We were on our best behaviour …."

"Sure you were, and I'm Sheena, Queen of the jungle. Now get in the truck ladies, and lets hustle."

"Sir, yes sir!"


	6. Chapter 6

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Six**

It had been a long day of varied activities, with no chance to get the slightest bit bored, and spirits were still running high amongst the trainees, after their jaunt out on the town the previous evening.

They had taken part in various classes in the morning, focusing on the new targeting software and communications scanning and jamming equipment, new commands having been added to the software programme, and the manual updated to reflect those changes, and then the group had split up to follow their scheduled routine for physical and psychological evaluations, and then, after a welcome rest period, they had reported to the surface and transferred by jeeps to the airfield, and their respective new aircraft, three now, so that all three crews could fly together, and had enjoyed an hour long flight.

Another milk run, which saw them returning home with the onset of dusk.

Invigorated by the flight, just being back up there amongst the clouds in the wide blue yonder, they had all made their way to the mess hall for chow.

For once, the meal was a pleasant experience, the food reasonable and piled high, the company mellow and jovial, once Shaw and McCrea had gotten their respective devils out of their systems, after teasing each other and the catering staff.

The guys were all laughing and joking around as they ate and drank coffee, still chuckling over the antics of the drunken old geezer in the bar the previous evening.

The gall of the man.

Thinking he could take on the Army, the Navy and the Air Force ….

And, whom, Roger Dobbs found himself hoping, had managed to escape the bar without further incident, and had holed himself up in his hotel room, gotten his head down and got a good night's sleep, laying low while he waited for Archangel to get back to him with the details of the background checks he had suggested they run, on Eugene Webber and Dr Sara Sykes.

Speaking of the good doctor, their paths had crossed several times during the day, but somehow, although he wasn't sure if it was purely his imagination, Roger Dobbs could not help getting the feeling that there was something odd about the way she was acting around him.

He knew, that _**she**_ knew full well that he had seen her in the bar last night ….

And that _**he **_knew that she had seen him too ….

Was she feeling ever so slightly guilty?

She certainly appeared to be suffering from a deplorable lack of curiosity.

But then again ….

Despite the fact that he was dying to ask her about the previous evening, and the questioning looks she kept aiming in his direction, almost as though she were daring him to come out with it ….

Neither of them broached the subject.

They carried on as normal.

Watching each other when the other did not think they were being observed. Furtive, surreptitious glances, occasionally catching each other's eyes ….

Eyes darting away quickly again ….

Evading the issue.

Like a couple of kids.

But Roger Dobbs still couldn't dismiss the notion that she was much cooler in her attitude toward him today.

By the end of the morning, his head hurt, trying to work out why she was the one who was peeved, when it was him who had caught her out with some other guy.

And trying to reason with himself, why it was he felt so miffed about it, as they continued to pussy foot around each other, exchanging a few polite pleasantries, as part of the testing procedures, and had then each gone their separate ways, on to the next task on the days' schedule.

By the end of the day, even the guys had noticed that there seemed to be something of a cooling between Dobbs and the doctor, and naturally they teased him about it, asking him what he had said or done, Malcolm Shaw even going so far as to wonder out loud if Psycho Sara had gone off him ….

Leaving Roger Dobbs in no doubt that they too had spotted Sara Sykes and her companion in the bar the previous evening, and had come to the conclusion that she had thrown him over in favour of the lousy boxer.

When she too had entered the mess hall, not long after the trainees, and had barely managed a nod of acknowledgement in his direction, Dobbs had had to endure even more nudges and elbows in the ribs and sniggers and whispers about Psycho Sara not loving him anymore.

_**Children.**_

But, he had been disappointed not to be blessed with that marvellous smile as she carried her tray of food to the other side of the mess hall and sat down with a couple of the nurses from the infirmary, who immediately made some joke, which made her laugh out loud.

Despite that, Dobbs was pleased to see that she was suffering no ill effects from the lab fire.

He hadn't really had much of a chance to look at her last night, although he had been able to see that she had still looked a little pale and shocked, and that it had had nothing to do with her surprise at seeing him enter the bar.

During the day he had watched her, marvelling at how she could simply pick up the pieces and carry on as if nothing had happened, ever professional and confident in her work, she had showed not the slightest reluctance to mix with the trainees, or to go back to the lab where the fire had started.

She was incredible.

And he had been surprised at just how disappointed he had been not to be included in her little jokes and to be blessed with that devilish smile.

And, he had told himself sternly, he didn't have the time, or the right, to be irritated by the fact that she no longer seemed to find him of any interest.

He should be relieved.

He did not need the distraction.

Again their eyes met, briefly, for once, hers were unreadable as she pulled her gaze away from his and concentrated on the food on her plate.

Surreptitiously, through lowered lashes, Roger Dobbs observed Sara Sykes as she pushed her food around her plate, her appetite obviously having deserted her, and feigned interest in the conversation with her medical colleagues, but they were already at the coffee stage of their meal break, and did not stay too long, leaving Sara Sykes to pretend interest in an article in a medical journal she had carried in, rolled up under her arm.

She stubbornly refused to look in his direction.

And curiosity was killing him.

He desperately needed to know who the man she had been with last night was.

Because, Dobbs reasoned to himself, he needed to assess the possible threat, to the project, and to his own position undercover.

His sudden appearance on the scene altered things radically.

What exactly was his interest in Sara?

How long had they known each other?

Was it possible that this was a new relationship, instigated by the guy so that he could use Sara to get to the project?

There was another possibility, Dobbs found himself pondering thoughtfully, midway between lifting his cup to his lips and taking another sip of the coffee he no longer really wanted.

Maybe they were old friends?

Acquaintances?

Lovers?

And, maybe Sara had invited the guy to the bar so that she could end their relationship.

If she did have feelings for _**him**_, Dobbs surmised, and if the way she had looked into his eyes when he had carried her out of that smoke filled lab was any indication ….

The way her soft lips had caressed is shoulder as she snuggled her face into him.

The way her lips had moved so sweetly and welcomingly against his own, if only briefly ….

She was not completely immune to him.

Nor he to her, he silently conceded to himself.

Maybe ….

Maybe she had decided that it would not be fair to keep the other guy dangling. Perhaps she had realised that what she felt for him was simply not enough after all, that she did not care about him enough to continue their relationship?

And maybe now she was having second thoughts?

Regretting her hasty decision?

So, what had happened to make her change her opinion of him, so quickly and so radically? Dobbs scratched absently at his chin and mused silently to himself.

_**Oh hell! She was a dame, wasn't she! She didn't need a reason.**_

_**And sitting there tying himself in knots over it wasn't going to help him do his job here!**_

_**Which was finding a saboteur, and a ruthless, cold blooded murderer and putting a stop to him, or her, before they did any more damage.**_

At last, most of his colleagues had drifted away, replenished by their meal and still high on adrenalin, eager to get into a poker game in the ready room.

They had included Dobbs in the invitation to join them, but he had tactfully declined, leaving Chuck McCrea to speculate aloud if maybe the Major thought he might get lucky elsewhere?

His knowing blue eyes drifting briefly, and meaningfully toward where Sara Sykes stared absently into space.

"At the risk of getting my head handed back to me," Frank Campbell had leaned in to whisper into his ear, as he had risen from his seat at the dining table. "You two aren't fooling anyone," he had chuckled. "Sometimes, you just have to bow to the inevitable. Good luck, Major," and he had departed, giving Dobbs a knowing wink.

_**Damn.**_ Dobbs found himself thinking acidly, as he watched his colleagues leave the mess hall.

_**Was it that damned obvious that he couldn't keep his mind off her?**_

_**Couldn't even keep his eyes off her!**_

_**And given half the chance, probably wouldn't be able to keep his hands of her either!**_

But then, he registered the fact that his Army bunk mate had said, that the _**two**_ of them weren't fooling anyone ….

So, was it possible that it wasn't just his imagination?

Had he been reading the signals correctly after all?

Was she just as interested in him too?

Maybe he wasn't so out of practice as he had first thought, and he did still know how to play the game.

Unbeknownst to him, a smug smile began to tug at his lips, as he found himself clinging to the hope that Sara had indeed invited the lousy boxer out to the bar so she could dump his sorry ass.

After several minutes of watching Sara Sykes staring into space, and sipping at his now cold, bitter coffee, Roger Dobbs had just decided to call it a night, when he noticed that Sara Sykes attitude had seemed to change.

She seemed anxious and nervous all of a sudden, glancing down at her watch, and chewing nervously on her lip as she cast a furtive glance around the mess hall to see who was still around.

She made a great show of rolling up her medical journal and tucking it under her arm as she gathered together the debris of her meal and took her dirty dishes back to the counter, still glancing around nervously although obviously trying to avoid looking at _**him**_, and trying not to look at her watch once more as she did so.

Immediately Dobbs was curious.

No-one else seemed to be taking any notice of her. Her actions seemed to be perfectly normal, but Dobbs could not help feeling just a little suspicious.

For a start, she wasn't usually so damned obvious, so conspicuous.

She seemed preoccupied and anxious as she made her way out of the mess hall, and, deciding that he would never have a better opportunity to find out what was troubling her, Dobbs deposited his own dirty crockery and cutlery on to the counter and casually followed Sara Sykes out of the mess hall.

Except that when he got out into the corridor beyond, there was no sign of her anywhere. He glanced firstly up the corridor to his left and then back down it, to his right, and it was then that his sharp, bat-like hearing picked up the soft sucking sound of a door closing.

It sounded like one of the fire doors which closed automatically on door closers, very slowly and sealed tightly against smoke penetration in the event of a fire, the kind located at the bottom of all the stairwells and fire escapes that led to the surface.

Someone had taken the stairwell at the end of the corridor to his right.

Sara Sykes?

Driven by curiosity, and a strong sense of something not being quite right, Roger Dobbs strode casually down the deserted corridor and ducked through the fire door, finding himself on a wide concrete landing on Level Ten, and glanced down the stairs to see if he could catch a glimpse of someone.

Nothing.

He then leaned over the handrail, craning his neck to look up at the concrete stairs leading up to the surface, and was rewarded by a fleeting glimpse of a pair of stiletto heeled black leather shoes and a pair of very shapely legs beneath the hem of a white lab coat and a short black skirt, and he knew that it could only be Sara Sykes.

His heart sank.

Why would she be going up top?

_**No good reason.**_ He found himself thinking darkly.

Maybe she needed a breath of fresh air?

Maybe she felt claustrophobic, shut away down here, away from the light, the world above, and needed to stretch her legs, feel the vast emptiness of the desert stretching out beyond the confines of the base?

Maybe she had a hankering to see the stars?

He cast around desperately trying to think of a legitimate reason for her to be skulking around outside, breaking the strict curfew regulations that confined all personnel to the building after 21.00

He didn't think that she was a smoker, but, there was just a small chance that she was heading outside for a crafty nicotine fix.

_**Or, maybe, she was up to no good? **_A little voice deep down inside, taunted him with a sneer_**.**_

No matter how much he might dislike the idea, no matter how hard he tried to fight against the notion, no matter what his personal feelings may or may not be for her, it was still a possibility.

And one that he could not over look.

_**Dammit!**_

Maybe she was plotting the next accident …. Incident ….

Maybe she intended to tinker with one of the aircraft …. Or one of the vehicles stored up top?

Or, maybe she was going to meet with _**him**_**,** the guy from the bar?

A clandestine, romantic rendezvous?

If that was so, Dobbs told himself, then he would simply melt away into the shadows and leave them to get on with it.

He was no voyeur, and had absolutely no desire to watch Sara Sykes with her lover.

However, there was another possibility.

Maybe Sara wasn't the innocent he thought that she was, and she was involved in this dirty business up to her pretty ebony hairline.

What if the guy was her paymaster?

Her accomplice?

Bitter bile rose up in the back of his throat at the thought.

Sara Sykes, a traitor?

A cold blooded murderess?

_**No!**_

She had been an innocent victim.

But, then again, maybe she hadn't.

Maybe she had been very clever.

Maybe she had deliberately placed herself in danger so as to be discounted as the possible saboteur.

He didn't want to believe it, but, he couldn't get away from the fact that it had been very convenient.

And that maybe she had made cow eyes at him all this time, to get him on her side.

To make him an ally.

So that he would protect her.

Defend her.

Should the finger of suspicion begin to turn in her direction.

She had played him for a fool.

_**Damn.**_

_**Damn.**_

_**Damn!**_

No, he could not believe that his instincts had been so wrong about her.

If he had been duped, then he needed to see it with his own eyes.

Quietly and covertly, hugging the shadows that ran along the walls of the cement stairwell, keeping back and out of sight, soft footed, Roger Dobbs made his way up the stairs, listening out for her soft footfalls, just in case she took an exit other than the one that would lead to the surface, certain that his prey was indeed Sara Sykes when he caught a whiff of her distinctive, delicate perfume, as he crossed a landing a couple of flights up, still lingering in the air, where she had perhaps stopped to get her breath back after the climb.

At last he heard the metallic clang of a heavy metal fire door as it closed behind her, echoing eerily around the concrete stairwell, and not wanting to let her get too far ahead of him, Dobbs sprinted up the last two flights of stairs, never more grateful for the punishing exercise regime he was forced to endure day in and day out, for it meant that he was barely out of breath as, ten flights up, he opened the door very carefully and peeked out into the inky darkness of the desert night.

The air was still warm and balmy and the breeze carried the distinctive promise of the ocean a very long way away.

There was no moon tonight, but millions of diamond bright stars winked and shimmered in the velvet blackness overhead.

The compound, deadly quiet and devoid of life, was dimly illuminated by tiny spotlights, highlighting each of the buildings, throwing them into stark relief against the utter blackness of the desert night.

Out of the corner of his eye, Roger Dobbs spotted his quarry as she moved purposefully across the compound to the huddle of buildings that he knew housed the garages, motor pool and fuel dump.

_**Damn!**_

She wouldn't be going for a crafty cigarette that close to the fuel dump, he felt sure, as he watched her slip into the shadows beside the vehicle shed, and he felt his anger and his outrage ignite deep inside his belly, at the realisation that his guts had indeed been wrong this time.

_**Never judge a book by its cover.**_ He thought sourly.

Even the most beautiful people in this world turned out to have the blackest hearts.

Sometimes.

So, he had been wrong about Sara Sykes.

Influenced by a pair of unusual and exotic eyes, and a charming, endearing and charismatic smile.

He wouldn't be the first, or the last.

_**Matahari ….**_

Now he needed to know what had drawn her from cover and brought her out into the desert night.

He could only come to one conclusion.

She was indeed meeting someone.

Again, clinging to the shadows, hunkering down to keep himself small and low, Roger Dobbs crossed the compound on swift, silent feet, casting furtive glances around him as he went, wanting to be sure that he was not being observed, and pausing, briefly to lean against the garage wall, the heat of the day still radiating from the adobe and cement brickwork, as he heard a dog's plaintive howl in the distance.

A security patrol, out walking the perimeter.

And then, a few seconds later, an answering howl, thin and high pitched, carried a great distance by the desert breeze, belonging to a lone coyote or wolf.

And then there was only silence.

A shudder running down his spine, and with his heart beating erratically in his chest, Roger Dobbs suddenly realised that there might still be yet another explanation for why Sara Sykes had been acting so suspiciously, so nervously.

That she might yet be an innocent victim in all of this.

What if, having failed the first time around, the saboteur had somehow lured Sara out here on some pretext or another?

And meant to try again!

Dobbs still couldn't work out why exactly anyone would want her of the way, but he leapt at the chance to quash all those negative feelings and doubts about Sara Sykes, and a survival instinct that he had relied on to keep him alive for more years than he could remember.

She had been behaving oddly because she had known that something was not right, but curiosity, and possibly the hope that she might be able to bring the culprit to light, had led her to walk straight into a trap.

Fully convinced that that was the only explanation that made any real sense, he was suddenly terrified for Sara Sykes.

Anxious that some new horror had befallen her.

Uncaring about subterfuge or stealth anymore, Roger Dobbs forgot to be cautious and quiet as he scurried out of the shadows at the corner of the garage shed and fetched up around the corner, her name anxiously on his lips.

"Sar ….Argh!"

Before he had a chance to finish, he was suddenly flying through the air, something or someone having grabbed a hold of his arm roughly, and using his own momentum against him, had thrown him, gambolling him head over heels, to land with a sickening thud, his breath escaping his lungs rapidly in a loud gasp as he was badly winded, and found himself lying flat on his back, the shimmering diamond like stars in the night sky not the only flashing lights he could see, as bright spots of white and blue light exploded before his eyeballs.

He blinked rapidly, trying to draw in precious breath and work out what had just happened, but he was still too dizzy and disorientated to make any real sense of it.

Trying to work out where his assailant might be lurking, and from which direction the next attack might come ….

If the attacker had gone after Sara ….

And as his vision cleared, and he began to come to his senses, he also became aware of someone coming to stand over him.

"Sara?" He choked out, tasting desert sand in his mouth now, watching as her face swam briefly before coming into sharp focus at last.

"Hello, Roger. What are you doing down there?" Her tone was all innocence.

"Admiring the view," he let out a deep sigh, brushing a tear from the corner of his eye, as he regarded her lovely, innocent face with a deep feeling of distrust.

"Nice evening for it," she smiled, but it wasn't the charming, endearing and enigmatic smile that he had grown used to seeing light up her face.

It was the cold, calculating smile of a predator waiting to pounce.

Dobbs found himself frowning up at her, wondering why she hadn't asked him what had happened.

Feeling his heart sink in his chest once more, as he had a horrible feeling that he was missing something, that she knew exactly what had happened.

"Oh no, please …. Don't get up," she placed her leather encased foot in the centre of his ribcage, pushing him back down into the dirt as he tried to sit himself upright.

"No, I mean it, please, don't try to get up. Nasty fall you had there. Should be more careful, Rog. Could have done your self a mischief. No," she again shoved her foot into his chest. "Get your breath back," she applied still more pressure to the centre of his chest with her foot. "And then perhaps you can tell me what the hell you are doing sneaking around up here?" She glared down at him, her eyes almost black now in a face that showed no sign at all of humour or levity.

Unforgiving eyes.

Suspicious eyes.

She was suspicious of _**him**_, Dobbs realised in incredulity, as she continued to pin him down on the sandy ground with her foot.

"I wasn't sneaking around," he managed to protest at last, dragging air into his aching lungs.

"Oh really?" she tapped her toe impatiently against his ribcage and raised her eyebrow indicating disbelief.

"I was …. Well …. I was …. following _**you**_, sneaking around!" He growled now, irritated at being pinioned to the ground by someone who obviously thought that _**he**_ was the one who was up to no good.

To his surprise, she allowed herself a small smile at his remark.

"Care to tell me what _**you**_ are doing sneaking around up here?" He countered.

_**Touché.**_

He deftly turned the tables on her now, hoping to buy himself a few precious moments to think.

"I wasn't sneaking, Roger. I'm just taking the air. Enjoying a nice evening stroll," she lifted the toe of her shoe from the front of his flight suit and moved out of the way, offering him her hand as she did so.

"Let me help you up," she offered and although he still wasn't sure how or why things had gotten out of control so easily, he accepted her hand gratefully.

She was stronger than she looked, Dobbs found himself thinking as he grasped her hand and in next to no time at all, she gave his arm a strong tug, hauling him to his feet, however, her momentum did not stop there, and in the next instant, Dobbs found himself sailing through the air, as she deftly leaned forward, throwing all her weight behind the move, and tossed him without any obvious signs of effort, neatly over her shoulder, and he again landed on his derriere in the desert sand, a startled gasp jarred out of him once more as he found himself on his back, seeing still more stars.

He let out a deep groan and closed his eyes, sinking back against the sandy ground, hoping that his blurred vision would clear when he opened them once again, but before he could open his eyes once more, he felt something pressing, only very lightly, against his Adam's Apple, and his eyes flew open, startled, to find Sara Sykes standing over him, this time the toe of her shoe pressed against the column of his throat.

"Time to 'fess up, Roger," she told him coldly. "Tell me what the hell you are doing here, or I'll crush your windpipe," she promised.

"Kinda …. Hard to do …. With your foot in my throat," he gasped out, gagging as he felt his throat closing.

"Mmmm. You do have a point," she captured her lip briefly between her teeth and after a moment's pause, slightly released the pressure of her toe against his throat. "I'm waiting …."

"Sara," he began, but stopped as they both heard the unmistakeable whine of a rather large dog, this time much closer than before.

Sara Sykes glared down at him, and he knew that she was wondering what he would do next.

Would he call out?

Give her away?

"You were saying, Rog?" She prompted, her tone sarcastic and impatient now and he could plainly see the war going on behind her eyes.

To trust him or not to trust him.

To go with her gut feeling that he was an okay guy ….

Or to accept that her suspicions about him were valid.

Was he a hero?

Or a villain?

And suddenly, Roger Dobbs understood what was happening here.

She thought _**he**_ was the traitor!

_**Hot damn!**_

She had lured _**him**_ out here to try to flush him out.

Because, like him, she had not wanted to believe that she could be so wrong about a man she had instinctively liked, respected and desired.

She thought _**he**_ was a murderer!

As he had thought _**she**_ was.

But was that really the answer to the question, what had brought her out here tonight?

_**Could he trust her?**_

_**Could he persuade her to trust him?**_

At the moment, he realised, he did not have a whole lot of choice.

Tossed around like a rag doll by a woman who probably weighed no more than a hundred and twenty pounds dripping wet!

If it wasn't so damned embarrassing, it could have been funny.

"Oh I'm sorry, still got something stuck in your throat," she took her foot away from his windpipe now and glared down at him, angered it appeared, by the fact that she could now see amusement sparkling in his deep blue eyes.

"I was worried about you," he let out a deep sigh, after clearing his throat, and again the dog let out a loud whine.

Followed now by the distinctive sound of heavy footfalls.

The guard getting closer.

"Sara? Did you hear what I said? I was worried about you," he kept his voice low and soft, his expression neutral, silently imploring her to believe that he had been genuinely concerned for her wellbeing.

She gazed down at him, her eyes boring into him, and he sensed that she was trying to decide just how sincere he was being.

But, then she became distracted, and he felt his heart sink, as he too became aware of the sound of a large dog straining against a leash.

"Oh crap," she spat out and quickly removed her foot from his throat. "If you know what's good for you, flyboy …. Just keep your mouth shut and play along."

_**Time to see just how good you are at thinking on your feet, girl!**_

She again offered him her hand and this time he regarded it with a healthy degree of suspicion.

"What is this Sara? Some weird English courtship ritual?"

"Very funny, Roger Ramjet," she threw him a scathing look.

"You really think I'd be dumb enough to fall for that a second time?" Dobbs sneered.

"Give me your hand, Roger, I promise not to break it. Cross my heart and hope to die," she quickly licked her right index finger and then used it to draw it across her ample bosom as she hissed through her teeth. "Oh for crying out loud, man!"

She leaned down and with more strength than Roger Dobbs would have thought possible, gathered together huge handfuls of his flight suit and digging her heels in, used her own weight and all her strength to haul him roughly to his feet.

"I don't have time for this!" She growled, twisting the material of his flight suit tighter in her fists as she pulled him closer.

Bracing himself for another assault, Roger Dobbs was again caught off guard, as instead of finding himself being tossed over her shoulder once more, he felt her strong arms shoving him backward, propelling him roughly back toward the rough adobe wall of the garage shed until his back was pressed hard against the rough cement, feeling once again the heat of the day still radiating out of it and through the material of his flight suit, and then suddenly Sara Sykes was also pressing herself against him, her hot sweet smelling body moulding its self to the contours of his own as her lips suddenly locked on to his.

"Just relax flyboy and let me do the talking," she breathed warmly against his lips, slipping her long arms around his neck, cupping the back of his head and drawing his lips even closer to her own, her lithe, slender body fitting perfectly to his, as she began to kiss him deeply and passionately.

"What the hell …. _**Halt! Who goes there**_!"

A deep, rough male voice suddenly demanded, bellowing from the shadows on the other side of the garage shed, and immediately Roger Dobbs could hear the ragged, gasping pants of the guard dog, as it strained against its handler's hold on its leash, jaws snapping as he snarled and drooled and writhed to try to get free of the leash.

"Oops," Sara Sykes reluctantly dragged her lips away from Dobbs, her pupils dilated so that those gorgeous violet irises had almost completely disappeared, and then, acting flustered and embarrassed and coy, trying to fix her mussed hair with one hand and adjust her clothing with the other, deliberately giving the patrolman the impression that they had been getting into some serious canoodling ….

She turned to the patrolman, blushing in shame and embarrassment, and Roger Dobbs found himself marvelling at her acting abilities.

Wondering why she hadn't just taken the opportunity to hand him over to the cavalry.

"Sir? Ma'am?" The patrolman stammered, yanking on the dog's leash once more to try to control him, pulling him back to his side and ordering him to sit with a hand command, as he looked from one to the other of them.

Watching both of their faces, the woman looking embarrassed and shocked, the man looking completely nonplussed, the young sergeant tried desperately to hide his own amusement at catching them in such a compromising position, unaware as he did so of Sara Sykes digging the spiky heel of her stiletto shoe into Roger Dobbs instep to stop him from speaking.

"Sergeant," Sara coughed to clear her throat, briefly, somehow managing to act like a shy teenager caught necking on the front door step by an outraged, disapproving parent.

"Ma'am. You shouldn't be here …."

"Ah, Sergeant, can't you give us a break? Please?" She implored, wringing her hands now.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am. This is a serious breach of security," the guard told her, his tone sympathetic. "You must both be aware of the curfew, and that the compound is out of bounds after dark. I'm afraid I am going to have to report this to the CO," he advised solemnly, and if he thought it strange that the Major was letting the woman do all the talking, he wisely kept his thoughts to himself.

"But Sergeant," she stammered again, her chin starting to wobble now and her voice cracking slightly. "You don't understand ..."

"Ma'am …. I am sure that you are going to enlighten me."

The young man let out a deep sigh of resignation now, wondering what tale of woe she would come out with, and trying to decide how much of it he would share with the others back in the guard house.

"Well, you see," she faltered again now, and swatted at an invisible tear sliding down her cheek. "Oh damn. Looks like the cats' out of the bag anyway, honey," she let out a deep sigh now. "Sergeant. The Major here, well, the Major and I …."

"Yes Ma'am. I saw the Major and you ..." The young man wrestled with a smirk now, leaving the embarrassed lovers in no doubt about what he had seen.

"But, it's all right, Sergeant. What I mean to say is. Oh shoot! We weren't doing anything wrong …."

"Oh really? At the very least it is fraternisation," he contradicted her.

"Oh no, Sergeant. No, you're wrong. I'm a civilian," she corrected, her chin lifting slightly in an air of defiance. "But …. But," she stammered again. "What I am trying to say is. I mean …. Oh dammit, we have a licence for it!" She let out an embarrassed giggle then and this drew a frown from the guard.

"Ma'am?"

"We're married, Sergeant. To each other!"

And now Roger Dobbs let out a startled little gasp of surprise, which was then followed by a soft gasp of pain as he was rewarded with an elbow in the ribs and the sharp heel of her shoe in his instep again.

"Oh …."

"It's true, Sergeant, but we haven't been able to tell anyone, because we were afraid that they would kick one of us out. We haven't been together very long. Lord knows we didn't have much time for a honeymoon …. Oh Sergeant, please, can't you look the other way? I mean, cut us some slack?" She beseeched, her voice catching in her throat once more, and much to his surprise, Roger Dobbs found himself hoping that she wasn't going too far over the top with her little melodrama.

In a perverse way, he was kind of enjoying the performance.

Wondering how it would feel for real ….

If they had been a married couple, trying to keep their relationship a secret, so that they could be together.

"Look, Sergeant, I couldn't bear it if they split us up. Not now. You see, I just got through telling the Major that we are going to have a baby …."

Her voice caught in her throat then, in a most convincing manner, and she jammed her balled fist into her mouth and turned her head away from the sergeant, so that he would not be able to see that she was fighting not to give into hysterical laughter not weeping, Roger Dobbs was sure, as he felt his jaw drop open in utter amazement.

"Congratulations, Sir, Ma'am," The guard fixed Dobbs with an amused, knowing look then, and Roger Dobbs found himself wondering just how naïve and gullible the young man really was to be buying any of this, as he pinned a weak smile onto his lips.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Sara Sykes gushed now.

"However, Ma'am, it doesn't alter the fact that this is a serious security breach, and I will have to make a full report."

Amusement twinkled in his dark eyes now, as he looked from the Major, who looked to be about as poleaxed and uncomfortable in his own skin as any grown man could be, his lower jaw hanging open, face flushed, lips twisted into the most soppy, self satisfied, smug grin. Mortified to have been caught in the act, even if it was with his own wife ….

Overwhelmed, and obviously overjoyed by their good news.

And the woman, a civilian doctor he now recognised, with a delicate blush on her cheeks, tears shimmering in her eyes, as she silently begged him not to spoil this, their moment of sheer joy …. And to turn a blind eye.

_**Ah ….**_

_**Young love ….**_

"In the morning," he concluded at last, and saw the relief in the woman's eyes. "Late in the morning," he added after further thought. "Give you folks time to front up to the Colonel and break the news to him yourselves. Go better for you both that way," he pointed out.

"Oh thank you, Sergeant, thank you …."

"Sir, Ma'am, goodnight,"

The young man gave his guard dog another hand command to rise from his haunches, and then he tugged on the leash, drawing the panting, whining animal away.

"And Sir, Ma'am …. as you were," he chuckled and was rewarded by an exclamation of delight from Sara Sykes as she threw herself back into Roger Dobbs arms and began to kiss him deeply once more.

The young guard turned and marched away from the courting couple, a huge grin splitting his face, as he headed back to finish the rest of his patrol, thinking as he did so that the other guys would never believe it.

However, even when the guard was no longer in sight, Sara Sykes continued to kiss him passionately, and despite his confusion at the surreal events of the past few minutes, Roger Dobbs found himself responding, kissing her back with equal passion, and hunger, finally able at last, to succumb to the desire he had felt to taste the sweetness of her lips once more.

Until at last, they had to part, to draw in much needed air.

"He's gone," Dobbs spoke in a low, ragged voice.

"And your point is?" She whispered back, breathing deeply, her chest rising sharply with the intake of breath.

"You can quit the Oscar winning performance …."

"You think this is acting?" She reached out for him once more, taking his face between her hands and drawing his lips back down on to her mouth. "God, I've wanted to do this for so long," she confessed raggedly, as she welcomed his lips against her own.

Roger Dobbs immediately felt him self begin to relax as she wound her arms around him and drew him even closer.

She was crazy.

She really was a psycho ….

But at that moment, Roger Dobbs found that he really did not care, as he revelled in the magical sensations her lips wrought through his whole body.

She let out a soft little whimper of disappointment as he finally pulled his lips from hers, again to take in much needed air.

"Why didn't you wait to be asked?" He whispered, a smile curving at his lips now, as he reached out to stroke her beautiful blue/black hair, wisps of which had escaped her chignon and were caressing the delicate white flesh of her neck and earlobes.

"Because, I would have died of old age before you even got around to thinking about it, jet jockey," she breathed, snaking her arms up around his head and digging her fingers deeply into his hair, bringing his face down close to her own once more, as her lips welcomed his once again.

"Oh God," he let out a deep groan and gave into his need to kiss the breath out of her once more. "Sara …."

And then, suddenly, without warning, she was pulling him away from the wall, and in the next instant had somehow managed to flip him over her shoulder once more, and again the stars he saw over her beautiful head were not all heavenly bodies, and he let out another deep groan.

_**Here we go again ….**_

"You know, you could have just slapped my face," he growled sarcastically and dragged in a deep, refreshing breath.

"Cute."

"You kissed me, remember?" He pointed out.

"I remember. I also remember asking you what the hell you are doing here?"

"Becoming a statistic. Actually, a couple of statistics," he grumbled. "A husband and a father …."

"That's not the only statistic you'll become, if you don't answer my questions," she told him in a cold voice.

"My my, Sara, what a nasty temper you have …."

" You ain't seen nothin' yet, flyboy."

"And you were worried about _**me**_ putting the moves on _**you**_," he lay back against the desert sand and closed his eyes, wondering how he should let this play out, utterly confused about whether to trust her or not. "Did you have to marry us off? I mean, why couldn't you just say we were …. Horny!"

"Because, I'm not _**that**_ kind of girl, and this isn't _**that**_ kind of date, Roger," she hissed angrily, dark eyes fizzing with indignation.

"Oh really, Mom? For cryin' out loud, Sara! You didn't have to say anything, the poor suck's imagination was doing all the hard work for you!"

"Enough already! Quit stalling and start explaining."

"Maybe I'll just plead the fifth amendment …."

"That only works if what you have to say might incriminate you," she pointed out.

"Legal eagle as well as a doctor, and self defence expert …."

"Lawyer, doctor, injun' chief …"

"Over achiever, huh?"

"So sue me …."

"Sara …."

"Roger …." She mimicked.

"Are we going to do this all night?"

"That rather depends on you."

"I'll tell you what I was doing here, if you'll tell me what you were doing here, first."

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours?" Her tone was incredulous.

"No need to be vulgar, but if you're offering …."

"Ok! That's it! I have other more important things to be doing, flyboy. Maybe you'll feel more like talking to the Colonel …. After you've spent a night in the stockade."

"Sara," he let out a sigh of frustration now, and realised that he probably didn't have any other choice, because if she had doubted her suspicions of him before, all those doubts had gone out of the window.

If _**she was**_ the traitor, what did it matter if he told her that he had suspected her too?

He had been caught in the act of tailing her, so it was hardly tipping his hand.

And if she wasn't the traitor, and considered that she had the high moral ground, then his fate was probably already sealed.

And hadn't she already proved, quite successfully, that she was more than a match for him in a fight.

Maybe it was time for a little honesty.

Just a little, at least until he knew for certain where he stood with her.

"I told you already, I was concerned about you," he told her gently now, hoping that she would hear the sincerity in his voice, because, after all, it was the truth.

"I'm touched, truly I am," she feigned a yawn.

"Someone already tried to kill you once."

"_**Someone?**_ How do I know it wasn't you? How do I know you weren't going to try again?" She glared down at him.

"You think _**I**_ tried to kill you?" He was astonished. "Forgive me, but I believe _**I**_ was the one who dragged you out of that burning lab," he reminded, cut to the quick by her suspicion and her lack of gratitude.

"How convenient."

"What?"

"How convenient, that you come charging in like Sir Galahad, to rescue the damsel in distress. If _**you **_caused that fire, then it would be the perfect way to draw attention and suspicion away from you."

"_**If**_ _**I **_started the fire? Man …. You think _**I'm **_the one trying to wreck the project?"

"Aren't you?"

"Hell no!" He snarled up at her now. "But while we're casting aspersions, how do I know it wasn't _**you **_who caused the fire? You could just as easily be the one trying to wreck the project, and got yourself trapped in that damned lab on purpose, to draw suspicion away from your self …."

"You think _**I'm**_ a traitor?" Her tone was incredulous now, as though it was the first time that the notion had even entered her head.

"Aren't you?"

"Hell no!" She shot back.

"So we're back to square one."

"What the hell were you doing out here?" She demanded again, and this time there was a hint of tears in her voice, caused by self doubt, mingled with her anger.

"I was worried about you."

"You know, Roger Ramjet, I might even be prepared to believe you, if, I didn't already know that you are about as trustworthy as a rattlesnake!" She snarled.

"What?"

"You're a liar," she accused.

_**Dammit, that was getting to be a habit!**_

_**Called a liar, twice in as many days, by two people whose opinions meant a lot to him.**_

"And you can tell _**that**_ just from the way that I kissed you?" He sneered now, covering his shock at the realisation that he had compared what he felt for Sara with the way he felt about Dominic Santini.

"Quit tap dancing, and start talking!"

"You already seem to have all the answers …."

"Some. Not all," she told him defiantly, and now it was his turn to frown at her. "So why don't you enlighten me? Come on, Roger Ramjet, tell me why it's so damned important for some hot shot stunt pilot, from Los Angeles, to get himself in on this project?" She demanded, triumphantly. "Well, Mr Stringfellow Hawke?"

Roger Dobbs felt his heart skip a beat in his chest and fleetingly wondered how he could possibly have given himself away ….

Then realised that he could not have.

No way.

There was no way that she could just have plucked _**that**_ name out of thin air.

The only way to come up with Stringfellow Hawke, instead of Roger Dobbs, was if she had been the one to run the check that Archangel had sent Dominic Santini to warn him about.

And to do that, and come up with Stringfellow Hawke instead of Roger Dobbs, she must have ….

"I ran your fingerprints," she confirmed for him. "I'm suspicious by nature and cautious by training," she told him, unaware of the relief flooding through him, as he realised that his first instincts about Sara Sykes had been correct.

If she had access to the kind of equipment that could run fingerprints and pluck Stringfellow Hawke's name out of the hat, it could only mean one thing.

She wasn't the bad guy.

She had to be involved in some form of law enforcement.

"And I am very thorough. I have good instincts about people, usually. Need them in my job, and you …. You didn't add up. You were too laid back, too cocky, just too damned perfect to be true."

"You liked me …."

"Yeah, and that's what set the alarm bells off. I don't usually warm to people so easily. And you, you were way too slick."

"So, you checked me out?"

"I told you already, I'm very thorough, and just because you weren't around when all the bad stuff started happening, it didn't automatically mean that you couldn't be involved, somehow. I don't know what it was about you, all contradiction, so guarded, but so damned curious too. Oh yes, you can walk the walk and talk the talk, but I knew you just weren't right."

She paused to drag in a much needed breath, and all the time his piercing blue eyes never left her face.

"I tried Roger, I really tried not to have doubts about you, as the saying goes, if it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck then it must surely be a duck. You looked and sounded like the real deal, but …. Dammit, I don't know! Well the more uneasy about you I got, the more I realised I just couldn't sit on my suspicions any more. It wasn't difficult to get your fingerprints, all those specimens you have to provide …. So I finally passed one of your last specimen cartons on to certain friends, in high places, and low and behold, as I said, _**honey**_," she spat the term of endearment at him as though it were an expletive now. "The cat is well and truly out of the bag …."

Stringfellow Hawke let out a deep sigh of resignation and lifted his hands up in front of him.

"So what happens now?" He asked quietly.

"You answer the questions."

"I thought you had all the answers, Sara …."

"Some. Are you willing to co-operate Mr Stringfellow Hawke?"

"I can't see that I have any other choice, Sara. Other than the right to remain silent of course …."

"Fine. Exercise that right by all means, and I will exercise my right to get that guard and his dog back here. Maybe Fido could persuade you to answer the damned question!"

"Not until I know who the hell is asking!" He snarled. "How do I know _**I**_ can trust _**you**_?"

"You really do take the biscuit!" She seethed. "Who are you working for?" She demanded.

"Who are you working for?" He countered.

"Oh? Didn't I say?"

"Not exactly, but how's this for a little clever detective work? I'll hazard a guess that you're not plain old Dr Sara Sykes," he told her in gentle tones, keeping his expression neutral. "So, which outfit claims you? Civilian cops or Navy Investigations?"

"Very good, Mr Hawke. Very good. We both know that plain old Dr Sara Sykes couldn't have gotten access to your identity through fingerprints. Oh well, you might as well know the truth. My real name is Georgina Fellows. I am a Major in the US Army Medical Corps, currently working undercover for the Military Police. Now, if you really wish to remain silent, Mr Hawke, I'd better arrest you …."

"Wow!" He stilled her with his slightly raised voice, a frown creasing his brow.

"Now it's your turn. We are still playing show and tell, aren't we?"

"Back up. You're Military Police?"

"Cool your damned burners, jet jockey, and keep your voice down. No need to shout it from the rafters, if I haven't already blown my cover that is …."

"But …. But …."

"Such eloquence, Rog, I mean, Stringfellow. Damn, is that really your name? Stringfellow?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"I've come to expect much better from you. Spit it out. You'll feel so much better afterward. Confession is good for the soul …."

"So's chicken soup. Sara, do you really think that I'm the bad guy?" He asked her softly now. "What were your instincts telling you? You liked me. I know you did. And you thought that you could trust me …."

"How wrong can a girl be?"

"You weren't wrong, Sara. Damn, I've gotten used to calling you that, now I've got to remember to call you …. What? Gina?"

"Georgie," she corrected. "But don't fret over it, you won't be calling me anything for much longer."

"Sara …. Georgie …. You're instincts were correct. You really _**can**_ trust me. You do have good instincts. Listen to them now. What are they telling you about me? Oh hell, if you really thought that I was the bad guy, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. We wouldn't have given that guard the best laugh he'll have in his entire career, and you wouldn't have been able to kiss me like that …."

"Oh please …. Don't count on it. I'm a pretty good actress …."

"Not that good, and I'm no actor. What you see is what you get. I came out here tonight because I was scared that somehow, the bad guy had lured you out here to try to kill you. I thought you were in danger," he told her sincerely.

"Who are you? _**Really**_? And what are you doing here? _**Really**_?" She demanded, fixing him with a determined stare, and he knew that it was time to trust her.

"I'm working undercover too, for a government agency called The Firm," he confided now.

"CIA?" she asked in incredulous tones.

"Not exactly, but something like that," he saw the doubt beginning to creep back into her eyes now.

"Look, we can't talk here. That damned guard is going to be back very soon, and no matter how lovey dovey we look, he won't be able to turn a blind eye a second time. Is there somewhere we can go, to talk quietly? And I'll tell you everything."

He could see her weighing up the pros and cons of going anywhere with him, and found himself wondering what else he would have to do to prove his trustworthiness to her.

"No funny business, I promise," he added for good measure.

"Damn, and I was kind of looking forward to throwing you over again."

"Sara, you really can trust me. I may be the only person in this whole damned place that you _**can**_ trust," he told her softly now, his tone reasonable and meant to be reassuring.

"We're both here for the same purpose. To find out who is trying to destroy this project. To find out who killed two, maybe three people, and who may not be done killing yet. Maybe we can help each other? Sara?"

"I'm thinking …."

"Well, don't take all night. I can hear that damned dog howling again. Truce?"

He held out his hand to her now, indicating that he was willing to trust her to help him to his feet now, without ending up on his ass in the dust once more.

"Oh, all right, but no funny stuff."

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Promises, promises. Ok," she finally relented on a deep sigh, after all, now that he knew her true identity, what did she have to lose?

Besides, she couldn't help being curious.

And relieved, for she really had been disappointed and unsettled to learn that she didn't really know him at all.

He wasn't quite off the hook, just yet, but, she could not help feeling that she should give him the benefit of the doubt, unable to stop herself wondering, at the same time, if this acute sense of fair play would one day end up getting her killed.

She owed him a chance to explain, and if his story sounded plausible, she needed to check it out, and square it with the Colonel, for she was sure that Thomas Jardine had absolutely no idea of his true identity, or his purpose here.

"You're right, we can't stay here …. But we can't really talk inside either," she took his outstretched hand in her own, a delicate shiver of excitement running down her spine as his strong fingers grasped her own, as she gave a gentle tug and helped him agilely back to his feet. "I guess it will just have to be the stairwell. That's about as private as it gets around here."

"Fine."

"I'll meet you there in five minutes," she told him as she watched him dusting off the sand from the seat of his flying suit and trying desperately not to grin. "No point drawing any more attention to ourselves than necessary, just yet."

"You're kidding, right?" He eyed her dubiously, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips now. "It's a little too late for that, don't ya think? You have to know that our friend with the pooch is going to reach for the telephone as soon as he gets back to the guardhouse, and call just about anyone who is willing to listen. Probably has everyone on redial! Like you said, the cat is definitely out of the bag."

"All the more reason to keep a low profile, at least until we have no other choice but to act it out."

"Ya think? Maybe we should start out as we mean to go on, honey?"

"What? You mean act like newlyweds who can't keep their hands off each other?" She taunted.

"I already told you, I'm no actor," he reminded.

"So you did," she sighed.

"And I can't just turn it on and off like a faucet, Sara."

"Me neither," she confided. "But I don't think that's an excuse to put on a floor show."

"Is there another choice?"

"Sure, we could clear this up right now. You could march right into Colonel Jardines' office, and tell _**him**_ what the hell you're doing here."

"You call that a choice?"

"There is a third, Roger, but it could seriously jeopardise your future chances of fatherhood …."

"Ok, ok," he acquiesced with a soft sigh. "You still don't trust me, do you?"

"What do you think? I know you're no rocket scientist, Roger, but even you can work that one out."

"I see I have a little work to do on convincing you," he chuckled softly then. "All right, Sara, have it your way. You're the boss."

It was true.

If she really was military intelligence, this was her show, not his.

"You got that right, Mr Hawke," she gave him a piercing look, then grew thoughtful once more, as though again weighing up the pros and cons.

Damn him, standing there looking so smug and self assured. How she would just love to wipe that smug look off his face ….

With another kiss.

_**Hey, not now, girl, this is neither the time nor the place!**_

He seemed so confident that he could explain everything and that she would accept his cover story, that everything would be just fine, but she still hadn't quite accepted that he had a legitimate reason for being here, although, her gut was telling her that he wasn't the bad guy.

If that was the case, then perhaps they would have no choice but to pool their resources and work together.

In that case ….

_**Damn.**_

He was probably right. They should start as they meant to go on, so that the initial shock and rush of teasing and ragging would be over and done with and things would settle down again, allowing her to get back to the important business of catching a murderer.

Hawke watched, pensively, frowning when he noticed a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth now.

"What?"

"I sure hope you have a thick skin, because if we do have to resort to our little cover story, there will be lots of joking around and teasing."

Amusement twinkled in her dark eyes, briefly, at the sour look that suddenly crossed his face.

"Better they all find it highly amusing that we are a newly wed couple who can't keep our hands off each other, than feel anger and betrayal when they discover who and what you _**really**_ are."

"I told you, Sara. I can explain."

"Yes, and fool that I may be, I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and give you the opportunity to do just that. You should count yourself very lucky that you are not in the stockade with your ass in a sling right now."

Dobbs made no response, knowing that she was right.

He was fortunate that she was willing to hear him out instead of doing what any normal, sane person with suspicions and doubts about his credibility would have done, and marched him straight to jail.

"You do realise that if you don't show up in five minutes, the first thing I do is contact Colonel Jardine."

"I'll be there. After all, how can I possibly refuse such a pretty invitation, from the woman having my baby?" He let out a deep sigh, then, regretting his sarcasm, and reached out for her hand once more, relieved when she did not immediately pull it out of his grasp.

"You got the smarts, Sara, so use them," he kept his voice low and soft, his eyes gentle and imploring, needing her to see that he was on the level with her and that he intended to co-operate.

"Something tells me, that if I was _**really**_ smart, I'd stay the hell away from you," she let out a ragged breath then, but her gaze did not waver from scrutinising his face. "But, it looks like I'm stuck with you. For now."


	7. Chapter 7

Airwolf – Terminal Velocity

**Chapter Seven**

Clinging to the shadows on the other side of the complex, unbeknownst to either Roger Dobbs or Sara Sykes, a man had watched the events unfurling before him with amusement at first, then mild curiosity, and finally, anger and suspicion.

A strong sense of distrust had made him wary and cautious thus far, but the woman had continued to make him feel uneasy and he had needed to know if she suspected him.

From the very first day she had shown up here, he had been aware of something about her that made him uneasy, a sense of familiarity, although he could not recall where or when their paths might have crossed, which bothered him because he prided himself on having an excellent memory.

Then Dobbs too had turned up with his charm and poise, undoubted skills as a pilot, and that quiet determination, and again, more alarm bells had gone off.

_**Man, was that guy just too damned good to be true!**_

_**Was he for real, or what?**_

Naturally, he had assumed that eventually the powers that be would send someone in under cover to try to get to the bottom of what was going on here, but when the two of them had turned up, within a few days of each other, it had effectively divided his attention.

Was it purely a coincidence, or were they working together?

The fact that they had obviously been attracted to each other and that they were also obviously trying not to have to address it had made him doubt that they were an established team, used to working together.

If they were, then they were awful at it because far from making themselves inconspicuous, they had everyone on the base whispering in corners about when they were going to get down and dirty!

However, he doubted that either one of them were aware of the speculation about what exactly they were to each other, or the excitement and tension building up over who would win the grand prize on the book that McCrea was running on the outcome.

The problem that he had was that they both seemed plausible, and both checked out as far as his sources on the outside had been able to determine.

Neither had done anything to draw too much attention to them selves, except for the fact that they couldn't seem to keep their eyes off of each other, and Dobbs had proved to be a worthy candidate for the project.

Still there had been uncertainty in his mind about both of them.

So he had watched, and waited.

After the forced landing, Dobbs had remained cool and calm and centred on the project, a little shaken immediately afterward, but then he had returned to his usual silent, thoughtful and watchful self, not outwardly showing any signs of suspicion that the incident had been anything but an accident.

Sykes' reaction had been purely professional, but she had softened toward the other man, a little, the incident perhaps making her more aware of the personal feelings that she was beginning to have for Dobbs.

But neither of them had significantly changed their outward manner or behaviour.

After the lab fire, things had come to a head, especially after the kiss the pair had shared, if those who had been there were correct, but again, Sykes had returned to work today, a little more subdued and reserved than before, and Dobbs had grown more watchful, but only of her.

And then he had seen Sykes in the bar last night with the other man, the one with the broken nose, and again his suspicions had grown. They'd tried to make themselves look inconspicuous, but it had been obvious to him that they were uneasy about having been seen together, and not just because Dobbs had seen them too.

And then there had been the scene with the drunken old fool.

He still wasn't convinced that that had been for real, although he couldn't be sure if the old warhorse had been there to see Sykes and her friend and had tried to draw attention away from them, or if he had been there to see Roger Dobbs.

Again it boiled down to the two of them.

Dobbs or Sykes.

He had decided that it was time to find out exactly who these two were, and what they were doing here, and just how it would affect him.

Sykes had presented him with the prefect opportunity.

He had easily slipped away, to run as he did whenever he had any free time slated, and had done since he arrived at Project Thunderbird, pounding around the quiet, often empty corridors of the bowels of the base, on the pretext that it helped to fend off the mild pangs of claustrophobia which sometimes plagued him when he wasn't working, or didn't have something to fully occupy his mind, but which, strangely enough, did not bother him when he was in the cramped confines of a jet fighter cockpit, and a ritual that everyone had soon gotten used to.

It had come in handy to cover his need to keep slipping away from the others, to plan and execute his next move and to make his progress report to his controller.

He had been amused by the way that Sykes had lured Dobbs out here, but then realisation had begun to dawn that it wasn't just a pair of lovers seeking a place of privacy with which to conduct their romance, but that she suspected that Dobbs wasn't quite on the level.

It became more than apparent after the first time she put the guy down on the ground.

As he had watched her deal with the other man quite effectively, wishing that he could hear their conversation, sensing the tension and distrust between them, the watcher had realised that something was not quite right, that all was not as it seemed, and when she had failed to hand Dobbs over to that dunderhead guard and his dog, alarm bells had started ringing in his head.

His original distrust had resurfaced and he knew that he had to find out more about what had transpired between Dobbs and Sykes, for it could seriously affect his position here.

With one last glance back over his shoulder, watching as Sykes was reaching out to help Dobbs to his feet now, and the other man dusted himself off once more, a wry look on his familiar, handsome face, ensuring that they were busy with concentrating on each other and that he would not be seen, the watcher stealthily made his way back to the metal door at the top of the stairwell, knowing that the pair would have to come back in this way, and that if he went down a few levels and clung to the dark shadows, he might be able to overhear any further conversation between the pair.

The acoustics were quite good, and he could be sure that he would not be detected.

He would watch and listen, and then he would decide his next move.


End file.
